'W ^»^ x^^^ 






\^ .s 



o^; ' ,'-'''=^ 



%.^ 






.^V ,/ 



^ 



-7-^. . 









.o< 



«■_ 



.^•' -^^ 



r-'V, - '^ -^ 



^.. .x^^ 



.^^ .^;> 



1 1 \ 



'^'''•"'f^^^.o^ 






.^^ .O 



'. „ '^z- 



.^^ -% 






w 









'^. '^/.Vs' 



V. ^ 









0^^^ 



^ - 






^0 O. 



«.'^0. 






,\y </»„ 



, '-^/- ''^ ^^ •^^ 



,0- 



* J 1 1 " \V 















O.V 



.-Js^ 






CROWDING MEMORIES 





V 



CROWDING MEMORIES 

BY 
MRS. THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH 

With Illustrations 




BOSTON AND NEW YORK 

HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 
1920 



\0^ 






COPYRIGHT, 1920, BY HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 



6"tf^ 



OCT 29 1920 



©CI.A601177 



% 



'All, all are gone, the old familiar faces ! 



ILLUSTRATIONS 

The Doorway of 59 Mt. Vernon Street 

Photogravure frontispiece 

Thomas Bailey Aldrich at Nineteen 18 

Edwin Booth's House at Dorchester, Massachu- 
setts 40 

The Old "Nutter House" 84 

William Dean Howells 88 

Broadside of "The Great International., 
Walking-Match" of February 29, 1868 104 

Longfellow in his Study, with a Facsimile Au- 
tograph Quotation from "The Children's 
Hour" 108 

Hall and Stairway of the "Nutter House " 112 

Rear View of the "Nutter House," with Gar- 
den 116 

The "Jocund Sprites " 120 

Samuel L. Clemens 128 

Robert Browning, with Facsimile of a Letter 178 

James McNeill Whistler 182 

Aldrich at Lynn Terrace 222 

George H. Boughton, with Facsimile of a 
Letter ' ' 230 

William Black in Armor 234 

From the portrait by John Pettie, R.A., painted in 1877 



viii ILLUSTRATIONS 

Drawing-Room at 59 Mt. Vernon Street 264 

Julia Arthur 272 

Thomas Bailey Aldrich 278 

Charles Frost Aldrich in the Uniform of the 
First Corps of Cadets, Massachusetts Vol- 
unteer Militia 284 

At Mount Auburn 286 



CROWDING MEMORIES 



CROWDING MEMORIES 



CHAPTER I 

IN the "Life " of Mr. Aldrich, Mr. Ferris Greens- 
let writes: "In the late fall of 1862 Mr. Aldrich 
had met at Mr. Edwin Booth's rooms the woman 
who was to be his lifelong companion." The circum- 
stance effecting this event, begun two years before, 
was interesting from the subtle prescience expressed 
by this young girl, when she, for the first time, 
saw Mr. Booth on the stage. It was at the end of 
a summer passed in the White Mountains. The 
journey from New Hampshire to New York was 
much more seriously to be considered than would 
be possible to-day. A break for the night must 
be made somewhere, so Boston, and the Tremont 
House, which then was a notable hostelry, was se- 
lected. On the arrival in that city an invitation was 
received for the theatre that evening to see a young 
actor, who was playing to enthusiastic audiences 
and winning fresh laurels — the son of a great actor, 
Junius Brutus Booth. The youthful one of the family 
was very reluctant to have the invitation accepted, 
and shamelessly confessed that she could not be 



2 CROWDING MEMORIES 

tempted to sit through "Hamlet" — that she 
did n't care for Shakespeare anyway. But being in 
the minority, and as she could not be left at the 
hotel alone, with outward depression and inward 
rage she found herself seated at the theatre, so near 
the front that the orchestra was all that separated 
her from the Court of Denmark. Lost in wonder and 
amazement at the power of the playwright and the 
wonderful magic and magnetism of the actor, lost 
to the actual world, and living only in the life be- 
yond the green curtain, she sat spell-bound through 
the eventful evening. After the return to the hotel 
she said to her sister: "The turning-point has come 
to my life. That young actor will control my des- 
tiny." Asked how that could be, as her family had 
never known any person connected with the stage, 
she answered with still greater certainty: "I do not 
know the way, but it will be." 

Some weeks after this episode, her family having 
taken an apartment in one of the hotels in New 
York, the housekeeper superintending the arrange- 
ment of the rooms lingered a moment to say: "You 
will have pleasant neighbors. A young actor and his 
bride, Mr. and Mrs. Edwin Booth, are on this cor- 
ridor. They were married a month or two ago." 
Thus the "destiny that shapes our ends " was mak- 
ing real the premonition so earnestly believed. 

Weeks succeeded weeks and nothing was seen of 



CROWDING MEMORIES 3 

Mr. Booth and his young bride. Sometimes in pass- 
ing one caught sight of a cosy round table set for 
two; well-filled bookcases and the glimmer of fire- 
light on the picture frames. Once the door opened 
and gave a picture now indelible in memory : a blaz- 
ing' fire, a huge black bearskin rug, a cushion, an 
open book, and by it a guitar. As the door closed, 
the listener waiting heard the soft music of its 
strings, and a sweet girlish voice, giving fresh grace 
to the old-time song, "Come live with me and be 
my love." 

For the daughters of the house life was not so 
strenuous in the sixties as in the present time. There 
were lessons and masters, to be sure, and plenty of 
them, but there was also plenty of time to play. And 
of this time the younger daughter had taken undue 
advantage. On a day that was to be ever afterwards 
marked with a white stone, she had been late to 
luncheon, and the law was inflexible that under no 
circumstances would it be permissible to go to the 
public dining-room unattended. But she was hungry, 
and with premeditation determined to disobey; and 
so with stealthy steps found her way into "the little 
dining-room," where a surprised waiter gave her a 
seat at a small table. Perplexed over the composi- 
tion of an excuse that would not go to pieces with 
the cross-questionings of her judge in relation to 
her disinclination to luncheon that day, she did not 



4 CROWDING MEMORIES 

notice that any one had entered the room until two 
chairs were placed at her table and two guests were 
given them. The unbelievable had happened — the 
Prince and his Princess sat at her table ! She could 
have touched them! For a moment everything 
seemed unreal — the vagary of a dream — except 
the definite thought, if she raised her eyes the forms 
would take incorporeal shape and steal away, like 
the ghost of Hamlet's father. Companioned with 
this thought was the unhappy knowledge that 
should they prove real and in the flesh, she herself 
must soon steal away, for they would know that 
nothing came after ice-cream, and she was lacking 
the magic wand to turn it backwards into soup. 

It is most difficult to give any idea of Mr. Booth's 
personality at this time. His fine bearing and natural 
grace, the magic charm of face and figure, the melo- 
dious voice and the ever-changing expression of his 
eyes ! The one who was to be loved the most sat by 
him. Slight in figure, but with lovely lines; honest, 
straightforward eyes, brown and tender; years that 
counted nineteen ; an ineffable grace that made even 
strangers love her. 

Mr. and Mrs. Booth "chatted of this and that, 
the nothings that make up life," until suddenly the 
quiet of the table was broken in upon by the mad 
rush of a greyhound, who had slipped the leash from 
the hand that held him, and with inexhaustible joy 



CROWDING MEMORIES 5 

found his mistress. Tragedy also entered with the 
coming of the valet, who inadvertently had allowed 
this disturber of the peace to gain his freedom. There 
was a lurid flash of the tragedian's eyes, a lightning 
glare of baleful wrath, and then valet and dog es- 
caped together. With the protection of footlights 
nothing daunted the indomitable heart of Armand 
Richelieu ; but in front of the footlights no girl was 
ever more shy or shrank more from observation. 
For the other two, however, the silence was broken. 
The dog in his chaotic career had not admitted an 
obstacle on his way to his mistress, who with pretty 
words asked forgiveness for the culprit. The free- 
masonry of youth soon put the two at ease, and 
made the talk so friendly that when the melted ice- 
cream could no longer be made the excuse to stay, 
they parted, each expressing the hope of meeting 
soon again — but Mr. Booth sat silent and aloof. 

This meeting — so momentous for one in its re- 
sults — was accidental for all. The casual chance of 
a prolonged rehearsal — it was the first and only 
time that the Booths came to ''the little dining- 
room" that winter. 

"We are puppets, man in his pride, 
And Beauty fair in her flower. 
Do we move ourselves on the board, 
Or are moved by an unseen Power?" 

How vividly memory brings to mind a bitter 



6 CROWDING MEMORIES 

winter night — a night of sleet and snow and 
howling winds! The coming of a note that read, 
" May the culprit and his mistress call on his young 
friend?" 

The years recede and again I see, framed in an 
open door, a slender girl in a soft red dress which fell 
in simple folds about her feet. The refracting light 
striking and vivifying her lover's gift, a perfect 
chrysolite, holding the lace at her throat. 

"If Heaven would make me such another world, 
of one entire and perfect chrysolite, I 'd not have 
sold her for it." 

This evening was for one the Open Sesame of 
idyllic days, full of romance and mystery. Mr. 
Booth, then twenty-seven years old, was in the 
height of his splendor. The early part of his life had 
much of hardship and vicissitude, which with an 
inherited temperament had stamped his pale and 
mobile face with a deep expression of melancholy. 
The strange magnetic quality of his nature was al- 
most perceptible to the touch. No one could come 
into his presence without, consciously or uncon- 
sciously, coming under his influence. He inspired an 
admiration that no word can adequately describe. 
When he walked the streets people stopped to gaze 
at him. When he played, the stage door on the street 
was blocked with both men and women who waited 
for one more glimpse of him as he stepped to his 



CROWDING MEMORIES 7 

carriage. Of this luminous atmosphere in which he 
walked he seemed unconscious ; or brushed it aside 
as something disconnected with himself, belonging 
solely to the trappings and paraphernalia of the 
stage. Never then, or in the years that followed, was 
the personal note heard, excepting one night, so well 
remembered, when in the darkness of a stage box an 
apparition came: Hamlet in his sable weeds, and as 
glad to see his young, ardent friends as if he had not 
himself ensconced them an hour before in their cur- 
tained nest. The joy of meeting was so loudly ex- 
pressed by him that the caution came, "Edwin, 
Edwin, not so loud, they'll hear you speak!" With 
a light kiss on the uplifted face the gay and laughing 
voice rang out, "Why, they paid their money to 
hear me speak — and speak I will! " 

It was not decreed that Mr. Booth in his life of 
gloom and glory should know much of happiness. 
Doubtless this first year of the honeymoon of 
marriage brought him nearer to it than he had ever 
been before. No hermit in his cell, or nun in her 
cloister, was more secluded from the world than 
this happy pair. Daily on their table were laid 
letters, cards, notes of invitation — all read and 
courteously declined. They went nowhere, saw no 
one, save the two young girls with whom the new 
and ardent friendship was to live through distant 
years, warm and vital to the end. 



8 CROWDING MEMORIES 

The coming of each day brought little change. 
A morning walk to rehearsal, a drive perhaps in the 
afternoon, a partie carrel for dinner, with the en- 
chanting talk, the extraordinary activity of Mr. 
Booth's keen intellect, and the playful humor when 
he was in the vein of story-telling. 

Never to be forgotten is his impersonation of 
three miserably unhappy puppies, hanging in a 
basket at night over a berth in a Pullman car. He 
gave himself the characteristics of each separate 
dog, with his head over the basket, voicing its dis- 
tress and discontent over the situation, baying 
to the moon. 

After the dinner there would be the chat round 
the fire, the Prince lying on the black bearskin rug, 
face downward, supported by his elbows, going 
over the play for the evening, Mrs. Booth giving 
him his cues; then the rapid drive to the theatre, 
arriving long before the audience came in order that 
Mr. Booth might have time for his make-up. He 
always went with us to the box — always came 
there for us at the end of the play. 

In retrospection I know the spur for his best was 
not the crowded house with its loud acclamation, 
the shouts and wild applause. The play for him was 
all for that sweet girl-wife, who from behind the 
curtains, shut from his sight, followed word for 
word his lines. Once, clenching her slender hand, 



CROWDING MEMORIES 9 

she exclaimed, " Oh, I have made a mistake — 
said the wrong Hne, and Edwin is saying it!" So 
subtle and close was the tie between them. 

The only social event remembered of which 
they were a part this winter was something with 
a Shakespearean touch at the Century Club. Mr. 
Booth accepted the invitation with the greater re- 
luctance as it obliged him to wear evening dress, 
in which he was always ill at ease. He confided to 
his listener that in that environment he was so con- 
scious of his legs that they became to him imper- 
tinently intrusive and prominent. 

When the dreaded evening came, and the two 
unwilling guests were clothed for the sacrifice, Mrs. 
Booth looking like a violet itself in her purple dress, 
lighted by the fire of her opals, Mr. Booth said: 
"Now every man, woman, and child I meet will 
say the thing they always say, * Mr. Booth, do you 
believe Hamlet was really insane, or did he think 
it meet to put an antic disposition on?' " With 
this, and making his wonderful eyes convey with 
electrical effect the awful frenzy in the storm scene 
in "King Lear," they vanished. 

With one more incident of this archaic life the 
historian must turn the leaves, and set her stage 
for later days and other players. One morning the 
word came that, for some now forgotten reason, 
there would be no performance at the theatre that 



10 CROWDING MEMORIES 

night. This gave the opportunity Mr. Booth eagerly 
wished for — the chance for a flying trip to Phil- 
adelphia to see his mother, to whom he was strongly 
devoted. This would mean the first separation of 
the lovers, and the looker-on marv^elled that the 
flower-like face of the girl wife was without even the 
shadow of gloom, and the voice insistent that the 
visit must be made. When the sweet sorrow of part- 
ing was over the explanation came. Hamlet was to 
have a great surprise, a new dress — and we were 
to make it! 

The party of three threw themselves into this 
daring exploit with all the enthusiasm of ignorant 
youth, and with so little experience of the diffi- 
culties that might beset them in the undertaking 
that, had the proposition been to costume the en- 
tire company in twelve hours, they gladly would 
have accepted it. Yardsticks and measures were at 
once brought out, and severe mathematical com- 
putations made as to the number of yards neces- 
sary to compass a gown. A messenger was sent to 
the theatre for Hamlet's robes; a message to the 
shop for velvet; and soon with flushed cheeks and 
impatient hands the work went bravely on, and 
<'; the Prince's discarded inky coat fell to the floor in 

as many pieces as Joseph's colored one. In the 
excitement of ripping the garment the problem of 
putting together again had not been considered, 



CROWDING MEMORIES ii 

and although all pieces were carefully duplicated, 
they were without form and void in coming together 
again. No picture puzzle was ever so puzzling. 
There were hours of heroic effort spent, followed by 
black despair. When Mr. Booth returned next day 
he had his surprise, indeed, but not the one counted 
on. Three wan figures sitting on the floor, in their 
dark house of cloud, disconsolate; his mourning 
suit in ruin at their feet, and Hamlet to be played 
that night! After his first moment of consternation, 
his tenderness and playful humor brought balm 
to the sorrowful hearts. There was given much 
praise and gratitude for the good intentions, and 
tactful sympathy for the failure. There were hur- 
ried calls to the theatre for wardrobe women and 
seamstresses, and in their masterful hands pieces 
went easily together, and the inky coat was worn 
in triumph that night. 

The spring came and brought with it the most 
advantageous offer of a London engagement. The 
offer was accepted, and we sadly waved our last 
adieus as their steamer moved slowly outward 
bound. We all knew the idyl was over — the leaf 
was turned. 

"There are gains for all our losses, 
There are balms for all our pain, 
But when youth the dream departs, 
It takes something from our hearts, 
And it never comes again." 



CHAPTER II 

THE charmed life of the memorable winter had 
made it difficult to feel the same interest in the 
old routine. Romance had fled, and it was an every- 
day world again. The letters from London had an 
undertone of sadness. One felt that in some inde- 
finable way the going was not wholly a success. A 
few months later the cable flashed the happy news, 
"Thank God, all is well! A daughter!" From this 
time a more cheerful note pervades the letters, and 
there is much of little Edwina and her French 
nurse, interspersed with graphic descriptions of a 
dinner or a tea, and the celebrities met. 

At last, after a year's absence, the message, so 
impatiently hoped for, came — the date of the 
home-coming. There is an undimmed picture in 
my memory of the Prince and his sweet wife at the 
hour of their arrival to the same environment of 
the year before. How like, and yet how unlike, they 
looked. A certain pose of sophistication had come 
to both. They seemed more remote from the magic 
air, the fields Elysian. Before there had been time 
to realize the fact that they were actually at home 
again a card was handed to Mr. Booth. He read it 
aloud: "Mr. and Mrs. Richard Henry Stoddard." 



CROWDING MEMORIES 13 

The surprise to the listener was unprecedented 
when Mr. Booth said, "Ask them to come up." 
Then to the questioning interrogation of a face he 
said, "They are strangers to us, but close friends 
to Lorimer Graham, and through his correspond- 
ence we have also corresponded." 

A knock sounded on the door, and in answer to 
the deep- toned enunciation of "Enter," Mr. and 
Mrs. Stoddard came in, bringing with them, un- 
seen by all, the connecting link which was to verify 
the premonition felt by this young girl on first see- 
ing Mr. Booth upon the stage two years before. 

Every detail of that hour is very distinct. The 
opening door; on its threshold a woman of angular 
slimness, perhaps forty-three or forty-four years 
old. She wore a dull brown dress, with an arabesque 
of white in minute pattern woven through the warp. 
The expression of face and figure was withered like 
a brown leaf left on the tree before the snow comes. 
No aura of charm whatever. There was a moment 
of silence; then Mr. Booth with outstretched arms 
moved quickly toward her, and in his hands her 
hands were laid. There were but two words spoken, 
"Edwin," "Elizabeth." Then Mr. Booth, releasing 
her hand, slowly untied the strings of the bonnet 
that shaded her face, took it off, and still holding 
it in his hand drew her to a chair. 

After the incident of this dramatic meeting, when 



14 CROWDING MEMORIES 

Mr. Stoddard had found his way to Mrs. Booth 
and was speaking to her in lowered tones, the two 
witnesses of this strange scene felt for the moment 
de trop. But the feeling was followed a minute later 
by the certainty that they were not de trop, but 
non-existent. The door being open, wordless and 
with wonder they passed from this electrical at- 
mosphere into saner air. 

I know no prototype of Mrs. Stoddard — this 
singular woman, who possessed so strongly the 
ability to sway all men who came within her in- 
fluence. Brilhant and fascinating, she needed neither 
beauty nor youth, her power was so much beyond 
such aids. On every variety of subject she talked 
with originality and ready wit; with impassioned 
speech expressing an individuality and insight most 
unusual and rare. A few days after this first meet- 
ing Mr. and Mrs. Booth were invited to the Stod- 
dards' to meet their circle of literary and artistic 
friends. 

The Stoddards were living at that time in a house 
on Tenth Street where they had been for many 
years, occupying rooms up one flight on the corner 
of Fourth Avenue. Such a boarding-house as Miss 
Swift's was possible in the early sixties, and as im- 
possible in these later days. It was said that there 
were three literary centres in New York at this 
time: this unique house in Tenth Street; the Bo- 



CROWDING MEMORIES 15 

hemian circle that used to frequent Pfaff's beer 
cellar in Broadway; the third was the Century- 
Club — but there it was not all cakes and ale. It 
was rather a solemn thing to belong to it. The new 
member entered its (to him) inhospitable door with 
somewhat the same feelings that would have rep- 
resented his complex mind had it been the portal of 
a church. The chatelaine of the Tenth Street house 
was an exceptional and interesting character. Her 
criticisms and discussion of current matters were 
admirable. She would rather run the risk of losing 
a boarder than forego the privilege of speaking her 
mind freely in regard to every issue of the day. She 
had also a keen sense of humor, and dearly loved a 
joke, bringing to it a laugh that was most conta- 
gious. 

Among the heterogeneous company of men and 
women that assembled daily at her table she num- 
bered authors, actors, artists, musicians, mathema- 
ticians, professors, journalists, critics, and essayists. 
To Mrs. Stoddard alone, however, was the honor 
given of a salon. An invitation to her rooms on the 
evening she entertained was to this company what 
a ribbon is to a soldier, and prized accordingly. 

It was to this salon that Mr. -and Mrs. Booth 
were bidden. The tremulous excitement of the first 
meeting with the Stoddards had not yet passed. 
And for the guests of the caravansary in Tenth 



i6 CROWDING MEMORIES 

Street the desire was great to see the Prince of 
players, who hitherto had been as inaccessible to 
sight and touch as if he wore the iron mask. 

To the two who were not invited to the feast 
sadly came the recognition that there would be no 
dressing the bride on this occasion. A French dress 
and a French maid would give the touches which 
before they had delighted in. No confidences would 
be exchanged as to the evil tendencies of unpro- 
tected limbs in evening suits. The impalpable bar- 
rier of convention had intervened and changed 
their world. 

The next morning a sleepy eye opening to the 
light of day discovered a bit of white paper that 
had been slipped under the door, and which read 
something in this wise: "It is long after midnight; 
you are asleep; no light showing over the transom, 
and no heed to the slight knock at your door. Wake 
early, and come to breakfast with us at ten, that 
we may tell you of the delightful hours of last eve- 
ning. Good-night to you, dears, from Edwin in his 
cap and Mary in her kerchief." 

Recollections long unstirred give back the day 
and hour, and show again the same room of the 
year before. From the walls hang the wonderful 
living picture of life and death: the students and 
the master — Rembrandt's "Anatomy," looked 
down upon us. In the shadow of the heavy curtain 



CROWDING MEMORIES 17 

at the window we see the picture with the mourn- 
ing drapery covering, and half concealing, the casket 
of King Charles. The breakfast table this time is 
set for four; the sunlight touching and retouching 
its bit of silver and glass, deepening the color of the 
Prince's velvet coat. The bearskin rug still has its 
place in front of the open fire. But in place of guitar, 
cushion, and book, it is a monarch's throne. A 
sovereign reigns who is empress of all ; her minister 
of state a bonne in her cap. Her retinue woolly cats 
without tails, dogs without ears, and an army of 
Noah's ark's wonderful things half hidden in the 
long black fur. 

With the cofTee came the pleasant chat; the 
word-portraits, drawn with such mastery of per- 
ception that the men and women of the night be- 
fore became visual and breakfasted with us. First 
for guests we had Mr. Bayard Taylor and his young 
German bride, wearing the simple black dress of 
the German frau; the lace cap, the insignia of the 
new dignity of wifehood, covering her sunny hair. 
Bayard's "picture in little" was of a big, genial, 
lovable man, an immense favorite with all, full of 
good-fellowship, and bubbling over with gaiety and 
cheer. Next came Mr. Edmund Clarence Stedman, 
argumentative, alert, debonair. Mrs. Stedman was 
sketched in black and white, neutral and colorless. 
Stoddard, a poet and essayist. Mrs. Stoddard too 



i8 CROWDING MEMORIES 

scintillating to be drawn. Then followed the "mob 
of gentlemen and gentlewomen who wrote with 
care." After them, Fitz Hugh Ludlow, a writer of 
good stories, and a smoker of hasheesh — seeing 
visions. Mrs. Ludlow's picture had a charm all its 
own of youth and beauty; brown hair, brown eyes, 
slight figure, tartan plaid dress — greens and blues 
in happy mixture, with a final touch of the blue 
snood that bound her hair, with just a curl or two 
escaping. Launt Thompson, a sculptor — Mr. Al- 
drich, a poet — At this point the speaker was 
suddenly interrupted — a voice broke in, " Do you 
mean the poet, Thomas Bailey Aldrich, who wrote 
the beautiful 'Ballad of Babie Bell' ? Wait. I think 
I could almost paint Mr. Aldrich's portrait myself. 
I know his poems so well that the outward sem- 
blance of the man takes shape, visual and vitaliz- 
ing — Mr. Aldrich must be a man about thirty- 
five years old, tall, slender, with black hair, piercing 
eye, pallid face stamped with melancholy, which 
grief for the death of that child and its mother 
must have indelibly written there — you both 
must remember in their beauty and pathos the 
last lines of that poem: 

'"We wove the roses round her brow — 
White buds, the summer's drifted snow, — 
Wrapt her from head to foot in flowers . . . 
And thus went dainty Baby Bell 
Out of this world of ours!' 




THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH AT NINETEEN 



CROWDING MEMORIES 19 

" And in the beginning of that wonderful poem, 

Mr. Aldrich tells us — 

" ' The mother's being ceased on earth 
When Baby came from Paradise.'" 

At this point the young improvisatrice was in- 
terrupted by a strange gurgling, bubbling noise 
that sounded very like suppressed mirth. There 
was silence for a minute, and then, to the astonish- 
ment and dismay of the vivid portrait-painter, 
hysterical laughter, which would leave off for a 
moment only to begin anew. Finally the Prince 
found voice to say: "In poetry, and in play acting, 
nothing is, but what is not. Tom Aldrich does not 
look twenty; he is short and blond and gay and 
brilliant ; never had a wife, never had a child ; never 
had anything, I guess, but the Muses, and poetical 
license." 

Soon after this idealistic episode of mistaken 
identity, the habitues of Mrs. Stoddard's salon were 
invited to the Booths' for an evening; and to the 
two young friends was given the pleasant task of 
assisting Mrs. Booth in receiving the distinguished 
guests. It would be useless to describe the tumult of 
excitement this invitation brought. To gaze from 
afar on the celestial beings who wrote books had 
been their highest aspiration. But to touch the hand 
that had penned words that burn was beyond all 
imagining. 



20 CROWDING MEMORIES 

New York at this time was in the throes of the 
Civil War. The city a mass of national colors ; flags 
waving, battle-cries sounding from every pulpit; 
patriotism rampant; the gold lace of a soldier dear 
to every young woman's heart. If, unfortunately, 
she was without brother or lover to send to the front, 
her scraping of linen or rolling of bandages did not 
count among her compatriots. She had nothing to 
give to her country. The night before the culmina- 
tion of this wonderful party, to the younger of Mrs. 
Booth's friends, a telegram was given; it read: ** Un- 
expected leave. Am coming for the day"' — the 
signer of the telegram a colonel in the army, half her 
lover, and all her friend. 

For Mrs. Booth's young friend the following day 
was so filled with stories of *' battles, sieges, for- 
tunes," the hours passed with such rapidity, that 
the evening was half over before she awoke to the 
consciousness of her new duties In the world of poets 
and scholars. There had been a visit made, and a 
walk back in the moonlight. The toilet that with 
girlish delight had been thought over and planned 
could not now be made. Nor was there time for 
broad, intricate braids of blonde hair. The fair hair 
had been parted, drawn close to the face to fit well 
with the poke bonnet, whose azure silk lining and 
feathers contrasted prettily with the long velvet 
cloak and elephant-colored dress she wore. The bon- 



CROWDING MEMORIES 21 

net with its becoming light blue feathers was hastily 
taken off; the velvet cloak slipped from her shoul- 
ders, and she stood revealed — a slim, blonde girl in 
mouse-colored dress, with nothing bright about her 
save her hair. There was a hurried rush through the 
hall, a quick-beating heart, a pause for breath and 
courage, the door slowly opened and she passed to a 
new world — the world of letters. 

How well memory reproduces that scene; the 
gaiety, the laughter, the hazy atmosphere — for the 
men were smoking ; a rap on the table for attention ; 
a funny story told ; the chaff, the repartee. A group 
of two sitting in the shadow of the curtain's fold 
seemed so young and happy. They needed "no 
guest to come between. They needs must be each 
other's own best company." The shy one, who was 
vainly trying to talk theism with a graybeard, 
wished she might go over and join them. Just then 
the seneschal passed. There was a little tug at his 
coat and the whisper, "Show me Aldrich, please." 
The laughing answer came, "I mount, I fly!" And, 
unheedful of remonstrance, flew. There were inat- 
tentive ears for theism, and eager eyes for the senes- 
chal making his way through groups of friends, until 
he stopped and stood before the happy pair. Mr. 
Aldrich rose, and with unequivocal reluctance fol- 
lowed his host to where the mouse-colored girl 
awaited his coming. 



22 CROWDING MEMORIES 

There was no doubtful expression in the way his 
eyes returned to his one-time neighbor. There was 
no doubtful expression in the half-hearted way he 
tried to talk with the wordless being beside him. It 
was so palpable that he did not want to come ; it was 
so obvious that he did want to go. Once or twice he 
spoke across the room to Mrs. Ludlow, for that was 
the Dulcinea who had entangled him in the meshes 
of her brown hair. The wordless one sat silent, with 
mixed emotions: amusement, surprise, disappoint- 
ment — for there had been knights who wore her 
gages. The subtle affinity of affection soon sent a 
message to Mr. Aldrich's chum to come to the res- 
cue, and in answer to it, Mr. Launt Thompson ap- 
peared, and with the introduction and the words, 
"Take my chair, Launt," Mr. Aldrich bowed to 
both and leisurely sauntered away. 

Supper was served at a very long table, gay with 
flowers and lighted with huge candelabra. It was a 
new experience to see Mr. Booth as a host at such 
a gathering. Mrs. Stoddard sat at his right hand. 
There was much clinking of glasses, stories, and 
drinking of healths; but Mr. Booth's glass stood 
empty through the evening. 

At the end of the dinner Mr. Bierstadt, who at 
that time was probably the most talked-of artist 
in New York, rose, and after asking the guests to 
drink once more the health of host and hostess, in- 



CROWDING MEMORIES 23 

vited the entire company there assembled to honor 
him with their presence at his studio a fortnight 
from that date. In making the adieus Mr. Bierstadt 
said to Mrs. Booth, "Do not fail to bring with you 
to the studio your two young friends." 

Of the intervening fortnight there are vague and 
confused memories of small teas at the Stoddards' 
and the Booths'; calls exchanged, and evenings 
passed at the theatre ; the three no longer hidden by 
the curtains, but with lights turned up, and frequent 
visitors to the box. My memory recalls with great 
distinctness the coming of Mr. Parke Godwin, the 
son-in-law of Mr. Bryant, then editing one of the 
leading papers of New York. There were times when 
Mr. Godwin was lacking in manner and manners. 
When wholly absorbed in a subject that interested 
him, he took no responsibility whatever for a large 
body that often assumed questionable shapes, as on 
this occasion, when he allowed his weary limbs to 
rest on the seat of a vacant chair in the most con- 
spicuous part of the box. The fertile and futile at- 
tempts that were made to have the evening wraps 
accidentally fall and cover them, and the uncon- 
scious way in which he, finding them too heavy or 
too warm, would remove them and continue with 
his theme! The relief when the green curtain went 
up and the lights were lowered, and the chair with 
its unwelcome guests was invisible ! 



24 CROWDING MEMORIES 

When the Bierstadt evening came and there was a 
toilette d jaire, the blonde braids were broad and in- 
tricate; the white lace fichu was held by a bouquet de 
corsage of violets and white flowers. The blue of the 
dress matched the color of the eyes. When the studio 
door opened and the little party came in, Mr. Al- 
drich's look of quick surprise was not without a cer- 
tain triumph to one whose ears had so lately been 
attuned to the refrain of the old melody, "Phillada 
flouts me, flouts me." On this evening Mrs. Ludlow 
was without her cavalier. 

Mr. Greenslet in his " Life" of Mr. Aldrich visual- 
izes him as he was at this time with such accuracy 
that the words become as a glass in which he stands 
reflected : 

"Let him be in our minds, an alert, slender young 
man, with clear, steady gray-blue eyes, and crisp 
golden hair; let us imagine his witty, winsome man- 
ner with its slight distinguishing touch of Parnas- 
sian dignity, and we shall be tolerably acquainted 
with the 'lovely fellow' of his friends' recollection." 



CHAPTER III 

IN the kaleidoscope of brilliant lights and colors 
that focus in memory of the weeks that followed 
the evening in Mr. Bierstadt's studio are the nights 
at the theatre, and the charming men and women 
that came as guests to Mrs. Booth's box, Mr. Al- 
drich and Mr. Launt Thompson being very frequent 
ones. 

After the play there would again be the little sup- 
pers in Mr. Booth's rooms; sometimes other friends, 
but more often the same partie carree as of old ; but 
now we ''wear our rue with a difference." The 
Prince's glass no longer stands empty by his plate. 
The enemy that men put into their mouths to steal 
away their brains had found a vulnerable place in 
his armor; the strong armor that Love had forged in 
the blaze of divine fire. With the invisible spirit of 
wine another unbidden guest lurked in the shadows 
■ — a messenger awaiting the faultless one, who soon 
was to give her young life to save what was dearer 
than life. 

During this engagement of Mr. Booth's New 
York was seething in the indescribable excitement 
of the war. There were fewer theatres then than 
now, and those were crowded with men and women 



26 CROWDING MEMORIES 

anxious to forget in the mimic world the realities of 
the actual one in which they lived. Unfortunately, 
a previous engagement had been made for Mr. 
Booth for a short season in Boston, so the green cur- 
tain must be rung down, and the crowded and bril- 
liant audience that nightly had sat enthralled by 
the masterly rendering of Shakespeare's verse was 
disbanded. 

For the last days before the flitting there linger 
vague memories of detached scenes and hours. One 
scene must remain, however, always distinct and 
perfect. The quick rap, rap, of Mr. Booth at the 
door, and the breezy entrance of the happy pair, the 
Princess's face radiant with joy. In her hand she 
held her lover's gift, a beautifully painted miniature 
of himself. Her delight in her new possession was so 
deep that her words tumbled in expressing it. With a 
light laugh at her incoherence she drew his face close 
to her lips, and softly came the murmur of Othello's 
words, "O, my sweet, I prattle out of fashion, and I 
dote in my own comfort." 

Then the picture changes, and at the piano sits 
the lithe figure of a girl in a dull green dress, her only 
ornament a beryl brooch. From under her pliant 
fingers the exultant music of Mendelssohn's ** Wed- 
ding March" fills the room, and then sudden silence 
as she turns and says: "When Death takes you, my 
best beloved, nothing will be more my solace than 



CROWDING MEMORIES 27 

this last gift. I shall wear it eternally upon my 
heart." To the question asked: "Why do you al- 
ways think and speak of Mr. Booth as being the one 
to go? " quickly the answer came: " Death could not 
be so cruel as to take me from him. He needs me — 
he needs me so!" And then, close in his arms, 
through tears, her fervent prayer: "Almighty God, 
Merciful Father, for Jesus' sake spare him the cross ! 
Take him first, I do beseech Thee!" 

It was a gray and ominous morning the day of the 
departure for Boston. The depression of the weather 
seemed almost contagious to the four who shared 
its gloom. At the last moment, Marie, the French 
nurse, had without permission fled to confession at a 
neighboring church, leaving her charge in her crib, 
undressed and asleep. When the carriage for the sta- 
tion was announced, and the baby sent for, there was 
a darkened room, a sleeping child, and apparently 
no preparation for a journey. There was no time for 
inaction; the baby was hurried up, wrapped in its 
crib blankets, its clothes crowded into a bag, and as 
the carriage door closed, Marie was seen running 
toward it, her sins, let us hope, shrived and forgiven. 

Although this visit to Boston was expected to be 
but two weeks in duration, there were neither sun- 
shine nor smiles in the adieus. Sadly we waved our 
kisses as the carriage moved slowly away, sadly 
were they returned. Far from our thoughts was the 



28 CROWDING MEMORIES 

knowledge that, for us, it was the last look upon the 
face that had grown so dear. 

Before the allotted two weeks passed a letter came 
from Mrs. Booth bearing sad tidings, with the re- 
quest that their Lares and Penates should be packed, 
and their rooms of happy memories dismantled. The 
doctor had ordered for her a life more free from ex- 
citement. A house had been taken in the country 
near to Boston, and there, with the exception of an 
engagement of six weeks in New York, would be 
their home for an indefinite stay. The letter was sad, 
and between the lines one read that all was not well, 
and could but love more the wise and tender heart, 
who, with fine tact, and in so natural a way, had 
safeguarded and kept as much as possible from 
temptation the lovely nature given to her care ; who 
conquered daily more than a city in conquering an 
inherited tendency that burnt in his blood with 
fever heat. He had said once, when haggard and 
pale he walked the room: "Since daylight I have 
not slept. No one can imagine the call of that desire. 
When it engulfs me, I could sell my soul, my hope of 
salvation, for just one glass." Strong Love held him 
— Love glorified was to be his savior. 

After the departure of Mr. and Mrs. Booth there 
were occasional invitations to tea at the Stoddards', 
and occasional meetings of the new artistic and 
literary friends. An idolized brother of Mrs. Stod- 



CROWDING MEMORIES 29 

dard, Major Wilson Bars tow, on the staff of General 
Dix, wounded, and home on sick-leave, was much 
in evidence. Gold lace and brass buttons in the six- 
ties took precedence over civilian suits. Mr. Aldrich 
also came frequently. He was at that time doing 
editorial work on the "Illustrated News." There is 
a momentary picture of him, describing to his hostess 
the tribulation and dismay of a helpless editor when 
the proprietor of his journal comes to him with a 
foot-rule in his hand, and demands an editorial of 
seven inches and three quarters — no more nor less 
— as he has measured the space on a blank sheet 
of paper and thinks the proportion looks well ! Years 
later, another proprietor — this time a titled one 
of London — wrote, asking a contribution for his 
journal, a sonnet preferred, not to exceed a page, or 
a page and a half ! 

The six weeks' engagement of Mr. Booth was to 
begin in New York on February 9, 1863. The days 
so eagerly counted that intervened were now few, 
and when those had passed and the new day come, 
all the rosebuds should be gathered. For this engage- 
ment Mr. Booth had taken an apartment near the 
theatre, and almost at the moment when their 
young friends were planning what flowers and fruit 
should be there to welcome the arrival, a letter came 
with the Boston postmark, bringing, before the seal 
was broken, a foreboding of disappointment. The 



30 CROWDING MEMORIES 

letter was from Mrs. Booth. In some way she had 
strained a tendon. The doctor and Mr. Booth so 
urgently insisted the need of absolute rest for it, 
that at last she had yielded, and Mr. Booth would 
come without her for the first weeks. Then followed 
the despairing moan: "I send him to you. Oh, take 
care of him, take care of him, for my sake!" Then 
they knew. 

Close as the friendship was, there had always been 
reticence upon one subject. Never but once or twice 
at the most had it been spoken of between them. 
The few times the condition was so obvious that it 
could not be gainsaid, his sweet defender, his "fair 
warrior," said, ** Alas, Mr. Booth is not well to-day." 
Once she spoke of the pathetic repentance that al- 
ways followed; his abasement at her feet for his 
broken vows; his prayer for forgiveness. Soon after 
the letter Mr. Booth came. He brought for his 
young friends tickets for all the performances of 
the week ; but the box, which had become almost a 
''possessive case," was given to Mrs. Stoddard. 

In Mr. Booth's manner there was a nervous ex- 
citement — an expression in the eye unstable and 
flitting. In a strange way he seemed as if he stood in 
a world, companionless, the invisible supports of 
life withdrawn. He touched in that week in his act- 
ing, all the gamut — - the scale of good, bad, indif- 
ferent, magnificent. But, with however little interest 



CROWDING MEMORIES 31 

he played his part, there was always, as Mr. Clapp 
recalls with delight, the purity of his enunciation, 
the elegant correctness of his pronunciation — his 
absolute mastery of the music and meaning of 
Shakespeare's verse. 

Through the week there had been vague and 
startling rumors, half suppressed; but not until the 
beginning of the next week did they take definite 
form. When Mr. Booth was not at the theatre he 
could always be found at Mrs. Stoddard's rooms 
on Tenth Street. Many were the councils held there, 
sub rosa, as to the mode of procedure that could 
protect him. The protection to be done with so 
much tact, and in such a natural way, that the pro- 
tected would feel it accidental. For, notwithstanding 
the sweetness and simplicity of Mr. Booth's nature, 
he carried always about him "the divinity that doth 
hedge a king." 

Mr. Aldrich and Mr. Thompson were the two 
knights that threw the glove and entered the field ; 
their code to be: inseparable companionship; never 
two, always one. Curious and devious were the ways 
devised to elude this unwekome chaperonage — for 
Mr. Booth found himself helpless in a net that was 
woven so closely with affectionate words, the joy of 
his companionship so great, that his knight brooked 
no separation either day or night. Only once for a 
moment was the mask lifted. Mr. Aldrich was on 



32 CROWDING MEMORIES 

duty in the dressing-room; his host full of sugges- 
tions of tempting and pleasant things in front of 
the footlights ; the unbidden guest loudly protesting 
his greater pleasure in the present companionship 
of his valued friend. At this point the true inward- 
ness of Mr. Booth's desire to be alone appeared with 
a messenger boy, who brought on a tray a suspicious- 
looking beverage. Mr. Booth, with a furtive look 
toward his charge d'affaires, advanced toward the 
tempter; but before his hand touched it a swifter 
hand had taken it; the two men looked at each 
other, and subterfuge was over. Mr. Aldrich went 
to the window and emptied the glass. Neither spoke, 
nor was the incident ever alluded to between them. 
Through the remainder of that evening, excepting 
the necessary directions to the dresser, all was si- 
lence. Mr. Aldrich went with him to the wings, and 
waited there for him until his part was over. When 
the play was finished, in the same unbroken silence 
the squire and his knight left the theatre together. 
The squire with rapid gait selected the point of 
compass that would lead farthest from home. There 
followed almost exactly the sequence of events that 
had been enacted years before, when Edwin Booth 
was a lad and was given the arduous task of watch- 
ing and caring for the health and safety of his ec- 
centric father. Sleepless nights and lonely days were 
not the proper lot of boyhood. 



CROWDING MEMORIES 3$ 

In the life of the elder Booth, Mrs. Clarke says 
that in Louisville, after the night's performance, Mr. 
Booth started for home; but moved by a sudden 
impulse he changed his mind, preferring to walk 
the streets alone. In vain Edwin tried to persuade 
him to go to a hotel and rest. Mr. Booth, finding that 
his son would not leave him, darted off in a contrary 
direction, and walked rapidly until he came to a 
long covered market, which he entered, and began 
pacing up and down from one end of the place to 
the other. Their walk was kept up without pause 
until daylight. Edwin soon became exhausted with 
fatigue, but his father, seemingly untired, would at 
times slacken his pace abruptly, then start off with 
increasing rapidity; Edwin falling in with his gait 
as it changed, sometimes angry, and again ready to 
laugh at the ludicrousness of the situation. Not a 
syllable had been spoken by either when the elder 
pedestrian was at last silently impelled to go home 
to his bed. 

At this later day, when almost the same history 
repeated itself, it was not until the daylight came 
that Hamlet retraced his steps toward the hotel, 
where Mr. Aldrich, still in unbroken silence, shared 
with him the "royal couch of Denmark." 

The next morning "Richard was himself again." 
No surprise shown at the presence of his unbidden 
guest — no allusion made to the night before. 



CHAPTER IV 

ON the second day of this last week, over which 
the clouds were lowering with deepest gloom, 
the little band of conspirators met again in the 
Stoddards' rooms, where they were unexpectedly 
joined by John Wilkes Booth; young, handsome, 
gay, full of the joy of life; no tragedy there; visibly 
embodying the line, "My bosom's lord sits lightly 
in his throne." He had just arrived from Boston. He 
said that two days before he left, Mrs. Booth had 
suggested that, as she would be alone again, she 
should go to the city and ask a friend to return with 
her. 

There had been a snowstorm, a delay in the horse- 
car, and standing on the snow she had waited for it 
and taken cold. On her return to the house she said 
to the maid: " Take me upstairs and put me to bed. 
I feel as if I should never be warm again." In some 
untranslatable way over the invisible wires the call 
was heard. After her death Mr. Booth in a letter to 
Captain Badeau writes: "I lay awake and I dis- 
tinctly heard these words, 'Come to me, darling, 
I'm almost frozen!' as plainly as I hear this pen 
scratching over the paper. It made a strong im- 
pression on me, the voice was so sad and imploring." 



CROWDING MEMORIES 35 

In the night Mrs. Booth wakened in very great 
pain, and for two days suffered intensely. The letter, 
however, brought from her was reassuring. She said 
the crisis was passed, that Mr. Booth must have no 
uneasiness, that all she needed was freedom from 
pain, and rest, and on no account must his engage- 
ment be interrupted by her illness. 

The following night Mr. Booth eluded his watcher. 
The situation became so serious that the next day 
Mrs. Stoddard wrote to Mrs. Booth: 

" Sick or well, you must come. Mr. Booth has lost 
all restraint and hold on himself. Last night there 
was the grave question of ringing down the curtain 
before the performance was half over. Lose no time. 
Come." 

What a sad picture the mind portrays of the com- 
ing of that letter. The sick-room; held up in the 
nurse's arms the pale and fragile form, the trembling 
hand that writes with wavering lines the pathetic 
words : 

"I cannot come. I cannot stand. I think some- 
times that only a great calamity can save my dear 
husband. I am going to try and write to him now, 
and God give me grace to write as a true wife 
should." 

When all was over, Mr. Booth found Mrs. Stod- 
dard's cruel letter. It was never forgiven ; and with 
the finding the ties of past friendship broke. 



36 CROWDING MEMORIES 

Th6 evening after the writing of the letter Mrs. 
Booth's illness assumed so serious a form that an- 
other physician was hastily summoned for consulta- 
tion. His verdict was: "Too late. The end is near." 
Mrs. Booth had asked the result and was gently 
told the truth. Accepting it with quiet submission, 
she only asked that they would try to hold the spirit 
until Edwin came, that the lips he loved might be 
the ones to tell him the tragic fate that had befallen 
and help him bear the appointed sorrow. 

All through that night she watched and waited, 
holding with her will her spirit's flight until the day- 
light came. Then she rendered back to God her 
faultless spirit. 

On this sombre night, when happiness died for 
Mr. Booth, he was playing fitfully, and only half 
himself; his dressing-table covered with telegrams, 
notes, letters, souvenirs — valuable and otherwise. 
Sometimes the letters were read, but more often 
swept into the waste-basket with seals unbroken. 
Never was there an actor who had such an extrava- 
gant following of adulation — never one to whom, 
apparently, it was so indifferent. 

Late in the evening another telegram was brought 
to the theatre, and with its unbroken seal laid with 
the others that had preceded it. When the play was 
over, and Mr. Stoddard, who was. on guard that 
night, was urging Mr. Booth, who sat stoical and 



CROWDING MEMORIES 37 

dumb, to go home with him, the manager of the 
theatre entered with an open telegram in his hand ; 
it read: 

"This is the fourth telegram. Why does not Mr. 
Booth answer? He must come at once," signed by 
the physician. On the table still lay, with unbroken 
seals, the three missives of evil omen. 

The midnight train had left. There was nothing 
until seven o'clock the next morning. Nothing to do 
but wait the slow passing of the hours. All through 
that night Mrs. Stoddard made coffee for him over 
an alcohol lamp as he slowly paced the floor; one 
moment refusing to believe his wife could be so 
seriously ill — the next, crushed and hopeless with 
grief. 

In the gray dawn of the winter morning Mr. Booth 
and Mr. Stoddard started on the journey. In a let- 
ter, written later to Captain Badeau, Mr. Booth 
said: "When I was in the cars I saw every time I 
looked from the window Mary dead, with a white 
cloth tied round her neck and chin. I did not find 
her so exactly, nor in the position I saw her from 
the window, but I saw her as distinctly, a dozen 
times at least, as I saw her when I arrived — dead, 
and in her coffin." 

On the arrival of the train in Boston a friend with 
his carriage waited the coming. As the friend moved 
toward him Mr. Booth raised his hand, saying, "Do 



38 CROWDING MEMORIES 

not tell me, I know." During the drive to the coun- 
try house not one word was spoken. When the car- 
riage stopped, Mr. Booth sprang from it, passed 
rapidly up the stairs, paused a moment at the bed- 
room door, opened it — those waiting heard the key 
turned in the lock, and through the long hours of the 
night there was no other sound. What took place 
behind those closed doors is sacred; even thought 
itself should enter veiled. In that holy sanctuary, 
beside his recumbent dead, the only witness to the 
agony, the struggle, the repentance, the renunci- 
ation. When the morning came, the dragon of men- 
acing evil lay vanquished forever at his feet. 

When in the half light of the coming day Mr. 
Booth came from the room, the ghost of what had 
been, it was like the passing of Raphael's Saint 
Michael — so triumphant was face and figure. The 
watcher entering the room later saw on the face of 
the dead no longer pain nor grief; in their place sat 
"gentle Peace." In the lifeless hand a rose was 
crushed, and on the breast, held by a slender thread 
of gold, the miniature to rest forever on the truest 
heart. 

No tribute can express more truthfully the un- 
usual loveliness of this rare nature, whose little life 
dream rounded so with sleep, ending on earth with 
her twenty-second year, than Mr. Thomas W. 
Parsons has in his lines: 



CROWDING MEMORIES 39 

MARY BOOTH 

What shall we do now, Mary being dead, 
Or say, or write, that shall express the half? 

What can we do, but pillow the fair head 
And let the springtime write her epitaph. 

As it will soon in snowdrop, violet, 

Wind flower and columbine and maiden's tear; 

Each letter of that pretty alphabet 

That spells in flowers the pageant of the year. 

She was a maiden for a man to love; 

She was a woman for a husband's life; 
One that had learnt to value far above 

The name of Love, the sacred name of Wife. 

Her little life dream rounded so with sleep, 
Had all there is of life — except gray hairs, 

Hope, love, trust, passion, and devotion deep — 
And that mysterious tie a mother bears. 

She hath fulfilled her promise, and hath passed ; 

Set her down gently at the iron door ; 
Eyes look on that loved image for the last. 

Now cover it with earth — her earth no more. 

Mrs. Booth was buried in Mt. Auburn quietly, 
and as she would have wished, without display. 
Among the little group of relations and friends who 
stood beside the grave was Mr. Booth's mother, and 
John Wilkes Booth, Mr. William Warren, Mrs. Julia 
Ward Howe, Mr. T. W. Parsons, and a few others 
who loved her well. Later when a tablet was placed 
over the mound, Mr. Parsons wrote the epitaph: 



40 CROWDING MEMORIES 

"The handful here, that once was Mary's earth, 
Held, while it breathed, so beautiful a soul. 

That, when she died, all recognized her birth. 
And had their sorrow in serene control. 

'"Not here! not here!' to every mourner's heart 
The wintry wind seemed whispering round her bier; 

And when the tomb-door opened, with a start 
We heard it echoed from within — ' Not here ! ' 

"Shouldst thou, sad pilgrim, who mayst hither pass, 
Note in these flowers a delicater hue. 

Should spring come earlier to this hallowed grass. 
Or the bee later linger on the dew, 

"Know that her spirit to her body lent 
Such sweetness, grace, as only goodness can. 

That even her dust, and this her monument. 
Have yet a spell to stay one lonely man — 

"Lonely through life, but looking for the day 
When what is mortal of himself shall sleep, 

When human passion shall have passed away. 
And Love no longer be a thing to weep." 

The life that followed in the next few months in 
this deserted house by the bereaved and lonely 
master is faintly sketched in some of the letters he 
wrote to his nearest friends. Passages have been 
taken from these letters to read as one, but it is the 
heart of many. 

"She was to me at once, wife, mother, sister, 
guide, and savior. All is dark. I know not where to 
turn, how to direct the deserted vessel now. Two 



w?^ 




.1" tm 
,1 \m 


1 


I^J^E 


[' 


fac^" 


fe'. 





CROWDING MEMORIES 41 

little tiny years, and the bright future is a dark and 
dismal past. I have no ambition, no one to please. 
My acting was studied to please her, and after I left 
the theatre and we were alone her advice was all I 
asked, all I valued. If she was pleased, I was satis- 
fied; if not, I felt a spur to urge me on. They tell me 
that time and use will soften the blow. God forbid ! 
My grief is sweet to me. It is a part of her. Were I 
to live a thousand years, I would ask no greater 
blessing than to mourn for her. In this once happy 
home I see on every hand remembrances of her — 
her sewing, her dresses — all are a part of her, and 
every corner brings her back. As I wake at night 
and look for her in the darkness, I hold my breath 
and listen, and fancy I can hear her speak — away 
somewhere. Every time the door opens I expect to 
see the loved form of her who was my world. Every 
day now seems endless. The nights seem lengthened 
into a century. I am in such haste to reach that be- 
ginning or that end of all, that I am chafed and 
breathless with my own Impatience. I regard death 
as God has intended we should understand it — as 
the breaking of eternal daylight, and a birthday of 
the soul. I have always thought of death as coolly 
as sleep, and gladly would I take that sleep were I 
permitted. Believe in one great truth, God is — and 
as surely as you and I are flesh and bones, so are we 
also spirits eternal. While she was here I was shut 



42 CRO\ATHNG MEMORIES 

up in her devotion. I ne^^^ dreamed she could be 
taken from me — as I have ever lived, so live I 
now, within." 

The weeks following the death of his wiie Mr. 
Booth was on the narrow line between sanity and 
insanity; a strange delirium held him in its clutch. 
Much of the time he was as Hamlet — with the 
"antic disposition" of variable moods of black de- 
spair, hysterical laughter, and tears. 

Here in this lonely house, with his world of 
shadows, we must leave our Prince, and turn tlie 
page to the other actors in this life's history. 



CHAPTER V 

FROM the evening in Mr. Bierstadt's studio Mr. 
Aldrich made no attempt to disguise his feel- 
ings toward the girl he had met there. His downfall 
was so rapid and precipitous that the girl herself 
refused to accept it seriously, using all the finesse in 
her nature to fence with the edged tools laid at her 
feet, her youthful mind having been taught the 
foolish maxim that love that would prove real was 
the flower sprung from the plant of a slow growth. 
The evening of Mrs. Booth's death Mr. Aldrich 
had written asking the privilege of an hour in her 
company, expressing also the hope that he might 
look forward to a cup of tea, and toast made by her 
over the cheer of the living-room fire. The plan had 
been made for that evening to be passed at the 
theatre. Although through the week there had been 
but the antithesis of pleasure in being there, the 
respite from nervous tension would be grateful, 
even if something only half as delightful as the ex- 
pected visitor had been offered in its place. Nothing 
was said of the expected caller to her companions 
who, with the parental advice to "go to bed early," 
left her seemingly absorbed in her books. 
When Mr. Aldrich came, she saw in the manner of 



44 CROWDING MEMORIES 

his greeting that neither coquetry nor finesse would 
prove her shield. The question would be put to the 
test, "to win or lose it all." 

"The winged hours of bliss" that evening passed 
much too quickly for the happy lovers. Once in the 
midst of gay and joyous laughter a sudden silence 
fell, bringing with it a nameless fear. May it not be 
possible that the soul then awaiting its final flight 
came for a moment with its valediction? 

The evening was nearly over before the petition 
came for the cup of tea and the toast. With a long 
toasting-fork over the open fire the toast was made, 
the tea brewed, the little table set, 

"And she and I the banquet scene completing 
With dreamy words, and very pleasant eating!" 

The next morning a note from Mrs. Stoddard 
brought the appalling word of Mrs. Booth's death. 

This intelligence was for the young betrothed her 
first awakening to the discipline and sorrow of the 
world. Love and Death in such close kinship proved 
strong allies in weaving the invisible thread in the 
web of the new life, seen through Love's betrothal 
ring, and bringing to it a deeper meaning. 

In the quiet days before the announcement of the 
engagement there was much to be learned of Mr. 
Aldrich's life prior to the hour of their happy meet- 
ing. The sketches of his boyish days when he, lived 



CROWDING MEMORIES 45 

with his grandfather in the "Nutter House" in 
Portsmouth were a never-failing delight to his 
listener. 

When Mr. Aldrich was a lad of fourteen his father 
died, and soon after he went to New York to take 
a clerkship in his uncle's banking house. His days 
there were given to the perplexities of uncongenial 
work, the nights spent with his tutor in the work he 
delighted in, studies and books, with now and then 
time taken for occasional verses, to be written and 
printed in the Poet's Corner of the "Portsmouth 
Journal." 

After a struggle of four years in the alien company 
of algebraical calculations, with the Muse constantly 
intruding herself and visualizing her presence on 
odd comers of billheads and papers, the day of re- 
nunciation came, when, taking the cumbersome 
ledgers in his arms and depositing them on his 
uncle's desk, he declared that henceforth his sole 
allegiance would be to the Muse, and that no longer 
would he endeavor to serve two masters. From this 
ultimatum there were loud expostulations, indig- 
nation and disappointment as well; for the uncle 
had looked forward to the time when business cares 
might weigh too heavily and the burden be shifted 
to younger shoulders. When the battle was finally 
over, Mr. Aldrich and his Goddess went sorrowfully 
homewards. He had chosen. 



46 CROWDING MEMORIES 

" But thou, rare soul, thou hast dwelt with me, 
Spirit of Poesy! Thou divine 
Breath of the morning, thou shalt be 
Goddess, forever and ever mine." 

** At this time Mr. Aldrich was nineteen years old. 
He had pubHshed his first volume of verse, written 
a poem which gained almost at once a national ce- 
lebrity, and resigned his place in his uncle's count- 
ing-room, to follow the life of letters." 

A few months later in the year Mr. Nathaniel 
Parker Willis, who was then in the zenith of his 
fame, invited Mr. Aldrich to the assistant editorship 
of the "Home Journal," an office that had previ- 
ously been filled by Edgar Allan Poe, and more 
recently by James Parton. Very graphic were the 
word-pictures Mr. Aldrich made of this slender 
youth, sitting in state in the editorial chair, and of 
the painful mortification caused by the per^^ersity 
of his golden hair, which would curl when the day 
was damp or warm, giving to him a look of boyish- 
ness most ill-adapted to the new dignity. Very de- 
lightful were his reminiscences of visits made at 
Idlewild, Mr. Willis's home on the Hudson River, 
and of seeing there the fair daughter, Imogene, a 
blonde of the purest Saxon type, with blue eyes, 
light brown hair, and delicate, regular features. 
Mr. Willis said she was very like her mother, who 
he thought when he first saw her was the loveliest 



CROWDING MEMORIES 47 

girl he had ever seen, and that after a week's 
acquaintance he had made her an offer of marriage, 
and was accepted. The intimate companionship 
with his chief, who at this time was about fifty 
years old, was vital in interest and charm. Mr. 
Willis from early youth was a figure of importance, 
both in the literary and social world. Professor Peck 
in writing of him says: "In Europe he lived with 
nobles and gentlemen; dined with ease with kings; 
consorted with the greatest in whatever land he 
visited; entertained lavishly; went everywhere — 
and all by the magic of his pen. One who had met 
so many interesting personages would of necessity 
become interesting himself, by this very fact, even 
if he were quite usual, and Willis was not usual." 

Mr. Aldrich said that to Willis belonged the honor 
of making Thackeray known in our country, long 
before "Vanity Fair" was written. He knew Dickens 
when he was looked upon as only a smart young 
writer. He had breakfasted with Charles and Mary 
Lamb; knew Landor; and to him the Countess 
Guiccioli imparted her memories of Byron. He was 
also the friend of Lady Byron, and of Byron's sister, 
Augusta Leigh, and of Joanna Baillie, Scott's friend; 
Disraeli, Bulwer-Lytton, Samuel Rogers, and in 
truth all of England's famous writers in the early 
Victorian period. In America he had a friendship 
with almost every man of letters. He went to school 



48 CROWDING MEMORIES 

with Emerson; was among the first to give encour- 
agement to Lowell ; was a friend to Hawthorne ; and 
kindness itself to Bayard Taylor when he was a 
friendless boy. Mr. Aldrich thought Willis very at- 
tractive and with exceedingly good manners, and 
that, in spite of a certain dandyism and jauntiness 
that was characteristic, he had real manliness, and 
always the courage of his convictions; that he pos- 
sessed the rare gift of making persons see what he 
described. His sketches of the literary society of 
London he thought would be eventually of such 
value that they would take a permanent place 
beside the memoirs of Horace Walpole and other 
writers of the time. 



CHAPTER VI 

THE evening came when all the stories of the 
literary life of which Mr. Aldrlch had spoken 
paled before the more human interest of his friend- 
ship with the adopted daughter of Wendell Phillips, 
whom he had met on one of his pilgrimages to the 
"Old Town by the Sea." 

Insidiously, and unsuspectingly to each, friend- 
ship had changed and unacknowledged love usurped 
the place. Between them, however, always stood an 
angel with flaming sword — "The Cause," as it was 
named by those who, under its banner, were willing 
to lay down life and march bravely to death, were 
it needful. The abolition of slavery had been for 
years a question of tremendous interest among the 
relatively small group of men and women who held 
it unrighteous and un-Christian to hold in bondage 
their fellow men. To this daughter of Wendell Phil- 
lips "The Cause" seemed the one important mo- 
tive and purpose of life. All the years she had known 
had been passed in this atmosphere of almost single 
thought, giving to her presence a kind of fire shin- 
ing through and about her like the lights in a 
jewel. Nothing could be more delightful than the 
personality of this girl as Mr. Aldrich sketched 
her. Tall and slender, the black eyes full of intelli- 



50 CROWDING MEMORIES 

gence and fire; gay, quick, and always different 
from anybody else he had ever met ; a girl of uncom- 
mon beauty of person and character. Unhappily for 
both, Mr. Aldrich at this time was not in matters of 
heart an entirely free agent. The summer before 
there had been a moonlight ride with a young friend 
of his mother's, "And on such a night, on such a 
night as this, when the sweet wind did gently kiss 
the trees, and they did make no noise," who could 
resist propinquity and moonlight combined? As- 
suredly not a young poet, in love with love. Mr. 
Aldrich felt his engagement to be an invulnerable 
armor, through which no arrow could pierce. Loy- 
ally wearing it, he could enjoy to the fullest the in- 
timate companionship into which he was thrown 
with this girl, who was visiting his nearest friend in 
the "Old Town by the Sea." It was not until he was 
actually submerged, wrecked, without rudder or 
compass, that he realized the danger, although Miss 
Garnault, dimly conscious of their mutual insecu- 
rity, endeavored to lead Mr. Aldrich astray with the 
thought that an elderly friend of Mr. Phillips, who 
frequently wrote her fatherly and Platonic letters, 
full of "The Cause," owned her allegiance, and with 
this imaginary wooer, doubly safeguarded, they 
might breathe the magic air without hazard or fear. 
With Mr. Aldrich's recognition of his real feeling 
for Miss Garnault was deep contrition and sorrow 



CROWDING MEMORIES 51 

for his broken faith toward one, who with most un- 
derstanding sympathy forgave. The story was told, 
and to her the initiative left, with freedom to break 
the engagement or to let it continue as it was before. 
The ring and his letters, tied with a blue ribbon, 
were returned, and Mr. Aldrich, with very per- 
turbed and unhappy mind, returned to the dignity 
of the editorial chair, where he and his Muse, in 
closer companionship, indited a melancholy "Nest 
of Sonnets" in which "Wailing Winds," "Dreary 
Waste," "Tender Thought," "Speechless Pain," 
and kindred themes were much in evidence. 

"When I was young and light of heart, 
I made sad songs with easy art." 

A few months later Mr. Aldrich asked Mr. Phil- 
lips for his consent to try and win the hand and 
heart of his adopted daughter. It was to Mr. Phil- 
lips a most surprising and unwelcome proposition. 
He refused to believe his daughter had grown up. 
"She was much too young to think of love, and 
when the real love came into her life, it should be 
brought by a man to whom ' The Cause ' was dear. 
Otherwise the union could never be a happy one, for 
the flame of 'The Cause' burnt day and night on the 
altar of the inner shrine — the beacon light illumi- 
nating the work that was hers to do." 

A concession was finally made — that there 
should be no engagement, but an understanding, so- 



52 CROWDING MEMORIES 

called; that if after a year both were of the same 
mind, Mr. Aldrich should come again, and this time 
the answer might be yes. But until the year was 
over there should be no meeting, although a few let- 
ters might be allowed. Smilingly they parted. Only 
a year to wait, and both so strong and firm in their 
belief in the fidelity and unchangeableness of their 
love. Although Mr. Aldrich was nominally but an 
assistant editor, his chief came less and less to the 
editorial sanctum, so that there was little leisure for 
anything but the routine work of the newspaper, 
and when measures for the abolition of slavery were 
strongly urged as proper themes for the editorial 
columns, the young assistant, like Cassius, "put it 
by," to his possible undoing with the fair one of his 
choice. The limited correspondence of four letters a 
month may have seemed as if too much coveted 
space was given to the mooted question. But with 
this exception they brought to the busy life settled 
content and happiness. When the year of probation 
was almost at its close, a letter came asking Mr. 
Aldrich to come at once to Boston, and ending with 
the words, "I am wretchedly unhappy!" 

Mr. Aldrich took the first available train, and 
with grim foreboding found himself at the door of 
Wendell Phillips's quaint old house In Essex Street. 
A servant, evidently expecting him,- ushered him In. 
In a few moments she returned with the request 



CROWDING MEMORIES 53 

that Mr. Aldrich would go to Miss Phoebe's room, as 
she was ill, confined to her bed. The interview there 
was dramatic in the extreme. With tears and fever- 
ish excitement the story was told. There had been 
threats against Mr. Phillips's life — the coming of 
an apostle of "The Cause," George Smalley, a cru- 
sader with sword and pistol ready to redress the 
wrongs of the world. The Essex Street house a fort, 
which for three days and nights the white knight 
guarded; the end of the comedy, or tragedy, easily 
foreseen. The reward of valor the fair lady's hand. 
For our Knight of the Woeful Countenance there 
could be nothing but acquiescence in this decree. 
The stunning blow should be met bravely, as befits a 
man; but in parting forever he wished the lady to 
know that in that room lay buried all his hopes and 
dreams. And should in long distant years another 
woman come into his lonely life, she must under- 
stand that he still could give affection, but never 
love again, for that must now be like the ashes of 
roses, dead in his heart. 

"They parted, with clasps of hand, 
And kisses, and burning tears, 
They met in a foreign land, 
After some twenty years. 

" Met as acquaintances meet, 
Smilingly, tranquil-eyed — 
Not even the least little beat 
Of the heart, upon either side!" 



54 CROWDING MEMORIES 

For the next three or four years editorial work 
proved a panacea to unhappiness. The Increasing 
responsibility of the paper, with the added work of 
reading manuscripts for other^ publishing houses, 
left no unoccupied time, except the hours stolen 
from sleep, for the "swallow flights" of song, and 
until the meeting in Mr. Bierstadt's studio all 
women became somewhat as shadows in Mr. Al- 
drich's busy life. 

From the time of Mr. Aldrlch's engagement, al- 
most to his marriage, the dominant note underlying 
every condition of life was the Civil War, bringing in 
its wake sorrow and desolation all over the country. 
Scarcely a life that was not in some way affected by 
it. Mr. Aldrich was then editing the "Illustrated 
News," and one day being in the street with tablet 
and pencil in hand, making a sketch of the assem- 
bling of a mob to resist the drafting of men for the 
army, one of the leaders of the riot noticing his occu- 
pation set up the cry, " Down with him! Down with 
him! Kill him!" Nothing but youthful agility and 
fine running powers saved him from serious injury; 
and even then in the foray his wrists were badly cut, 
disabling him for some time from using his pen, but 
giving him the opportunity to go often into the 
country for brief visits to his fiancee. 

"Ah, graybeard, what a happy thing it was 
When love was in its spring." 



CROWDING MEMORIES 55 

Mr. Aldrich had a wide circle of friends in literary 
and artistic life. Nothing could be more pleasing 
than the kindness in which they included the young 
girl to whom Mr. Aldrich had become engaged and 
welcomed her to their friendship. 

Many were the small teas given in her honor in 
the Studio Building in Tenth Street, where many 
artists of reputation had their studios and most of 
them their homes. Very delightful was this meeting- 
ground with its strong feeling of good comradeship 
which pervaded the atmosphere. When from one of 
the studios a picture was sold, there seemed general 
rejoicing, as if they were all members of one family, 
and each glad of the good fortune of his brother. 
Three or four times during the season all the artists 
combined and sent out cards to friends and acquaint- 
ances for an "At Home," an ''Artist Reception," 
so-called. For that evening every studio would be 
brilliantly lighted, gay with flowers, small tea- 
tables or punch-tables set in each one : the crowds of 
visitors wandering from room to room, here and 
there as the spirit moved, through the big building. 
Invitations to these receptions were much prized. 
Not%nly were the artists themselves to be seen in 
their varied and picturesque studios, but distin- 
guished strangers and guests from other cities were 
also to be met, and during the war there was certain 
to be the latest news from the front, for everywhere 



56 CROWDING MEMORIES 

officers and soldiers were much in evidence. Mr. 
Launt Thompson's studio was one of the largest, 
and as he was a great favorite, choice spirits were 
always to be met there both night and day. 

Memory recalls most pleasantly an afternoon, 
soon after Mr. Aldrich's engagement was an- 
nounced, when a cast of a hand was to be made. 
There seemed to be wireless communication through 
the entire building, so that if anything of interest 
was happening in any of the rooms the whole com- 
munity knew of it. On this afternoon artist after 
artist dropped in, until there were no longer seats 
left to be given them. The picture of that room on 
that day is still very vivid in my memory. The 
studio was high-studded and long. A colossal statue 
(General Scott, I think) dominated the centre of the 
room. It was still in clay and shrouded in wet cloths, 
shaping the outlines of a gigantic figure, and giving 
to it a weird feeling of awe and mystery. "The Trap- 
per," finished and mounted on a pedestal; the life- 
size bust of Mr. Booth as Hamlet, in process of mak- 
ing; a beautifully chiselled, oval face of a young girl; 
a plaster medallion of Mr. Aldrich, later given to 
him as a wedding present; numberless torsos, legs 
and arms, hands and feet, hung on pegs and nails all 
over the brown-stained walls of the room, with here 
and there a piece of tapestry or bright rugs to give 
warmth and color, and always in a corner the alcohol 



CROWDING MEMORIES 57 

urn for the brewing of tea or coffee for the unex- 
pected or expected guest. The coming of Mr. Booth 
(who had returned to New York) with his brothers, 
Junius and John Wilkes, the picture-making talk of 
the studios, and of Mr. Booth's saying to Mr. Bier- 
stadt and Mr. Gifford "that they must lose all sense 
of being save in the painted ripple of a lake, or the 
peaks of a snow-capped mountain." 

Mr. and Mrs. Jervis McEntee were the only mar- 
ried members of the fraternity that lived in the 
Studio Building. Mrs. McEntee, greatly beloved, 
and always willing to act as chaperon for the bache- 
lor artists when they held court. The McEntees' 
apartment was the only one that had the glorifica- 
tion of stairs and a kitchenette, and many were the 
charming little dinners served there, with eligible 
men always to be had waiting the hoped-for sum- 
mons. 

The first opportunity Mr. Aldrich had to intro- 
duce his fiancee to his more formal friends and 
acquaintances was at the Century Club. A testi- 
monial was to be given there to Mr. William Cullen 
Bryant on his seventieth birthday, to which the 
principal literary and artistic circles were invited. A 
letter from Mr. Aldrich that bears the date of No- 
vember I, 1864, expresses the excitement the invita- 
tion brought. The allusion to gold lace and brass 
buttons was not without a certain triumph to one 



58 CROWDING MEMORIES 

who in the past had feared their glitter might prove 
more alluring than civilian tweeds: 

" I hunted up Thompson to find out what persons 
are expected to wear at the Bryant festival. He 
knew as little as I, but as gentlemen are requested to 
wear black coats and white chokers, why, I suppose 
the ladies will be allowed to get their dear selves up 
regardless. But don't you do it. Your black and 
green silk frock and the lace shawl, and your hair 
high, will make you look as pretty as need be. You 
will probably never have a chance to see so many 
poets and artists together as will be there; and I 
shall be proud to take you on an invitation not sent 
to me because I am rich, or a member of the Century 
Club, but only because I am a literary man. A 
Brigadier-General of the Army of the Potomac could 
not get you there! All of which pleases me." 

It was a brilliant company that gathered at the 
Century Club on the appointed night. In welcoming 
the guest of the evening, the President, Mr. George 
Bancroft, said that the object of the meeting was 
primarily to celebrate the career of their guest as a 
poet. "While the mountains and the oceanside ring 
with the tramp of cavalry, and the din of cannon, 
we take a respite in the serene regions of ideal pur- 
suits." 

Ralph Waldo Emerson delivered an address, and 
poems were written (many of them read) for the 



CROWDING MEMORIES 59 

occasion by Dr. Holmes, James Russell Lowell, 
Bayard Taylor, George H. Boker, Richard Henry 
Stoddard, John Greenleaf Whittier, Julia Ward 
Howe, and many other lesser lights. 



CHAPTER YII 

MR. BOOTH had returned to New York two 
months after his wife's death and taken a 
house in Seventeenth Street, where he was ll\'ing 
with his motherless baby and the " impatient long- 
ing for his lost happiness." In a letter written to 
Miss Cary in the summer of that year, he says of his 
life and his household: " I have been kept as busy as 
though 1 had been acting all this while, for it is my 
wish to bring out several of the Shakespearean plan's 
in a superior style, and the whole management of the 
affair is in m}' hands. Ever^-thing looks fairly pros- 
perous for the coming season at the \Mnter Garden 
(1864), and when I begin, October 3d, I shall be 
kept at it until next April, when I shall act in Bos- 
ton. Dear iNIother is happy with her children about 
her, thank God ! but she still has an absent one, the 
youngest boy [John Wilkes Booth], strange, wild, 
and ever moving; he causes us all some degree of 
anxiety." 

Mr. Booth had become part proprietor of the 
Winter Theatre. In writing later in the winter to a 
friend he said: " I have scarcely had breathing time. 
The terrible success of 'Hamlet' seems to have 
swallowed up everything else theatrical ; and the de- 



CROWDING MEMORIES 6i 

sire I have to follow it up with something still better 
done in the way of costumes and scenery keeps me 
far off in fairyland day and night, in my dreams and 
in my days." 

The profound sorrow of Mrs. Booth's death 
had deepened the introspective expression of Mr. 
Booth's face, and made his body seem still more 
frail. In playing "Hamlet" this year he used no 
make-up save his inky coat and sable weeds, nor did 
he need to, looking Hamlet's self. His kinship with 
Shakespeare revealed itself more and more with 
every utterance of Shakespeare's verse. 

In writing to Miss Cary in the early spring 
Mr. Booth said: "Our war news is indeed glori- 
ous. I am happy in it, and glory in it, although 
Southern-born. God grant the end, or rather the 
beginning, is near at hand, for when the war 
ceases we shall only have begun to live — a nation 
never to be shaken again, ten times more glorious, 
a million times firmer than before. I have but ten 
more nights to complete the one hundredth of 
'Hamlet's' performance this season. Then I hope 
to give a benefit for the Shakespearean Statue Fund, 
in which I am deeply interested, and retire to pack 
up my trunks for Boston." 

On March 20, 1865, Mr. Booth finished his hun- 
dredth night of "Hamlet" at the Winter Garden 
Theatre in New York, and on March 24 opened in 



62 CROWDING MEMORIES 

Boston with an engagement beginning with great 
brilliancy and ending in such grim tragedy. In the 
last week of this engagement the news of the sur- 
render of Lee's army was received. The account of 
what followed the news of the surrender, Mr. James 
Ford Rhodes has told so graphically that I quote 
from his page: 

"The people of the North rejoiced ... as they 
had never rejoiced before, nor did they during the 
remainder of the century on any occasion show such 
an exuberance of gladness. Business was suspended 
and the courts adjourned. Cannons fired, bells rang, 
flags floated, houses and shops were gay with the 
red, white, and blue. There were illuminations and 
bonfires. The streets of the cities and towns were 
filled with men, who shook hands warmly, embraced 
each other, shouted, laughed and cheered, and were 
indeed beside themselves in their great joy. There 
were pledges in generous wines and much common 
drinking in bar-rooms and liquor shops. There were 
fantastic processions, grotesque performances, and 
some tomfoolery. Grave old gentlemen forgot their 
age and dignity and played the pranks of school- 
boys. But always above these foolish and bibulous 
excesses sounded the patriotic and religious note of 
the jubilee. 'Praise God from whom all blessings 
flow,' were the words most frequently sung in the 
street, the Board of Trade, and on the Stock Ex- 



CROWDING MEMORIES 63 

change. 'Twenty thousand men in the busiest 
haunts of trade in one of the most thronged cities of 
the world,' Motley wrote, * uncovered their heads 
spontaneously and sang the psalm of thanksgiving, 
"Praise God. "' Noteworthy was the service in 
Trinity Church, New York, one hour after midday 
of the Tuesday following the surrender, when the 
church overflowed with worshippers, who were in the 
main people of distinction. The choir chanted the 
*Te Deum' and at the bidding of the clergyman, the 
congregation rose, and, inspired by the great organ 
and guided by the choir, sang the noble anthem 
* Gloria in Excelsis.' These opening words, ' Glory be 
to God on high, and on earth peace, good will toward 
men,' had a peculiar significance to the Northern 
people who during these days of rejoicing were for 
the most part full of generous feeling for the South. 
Patriotism expressed itself in the songs 'John 
Brown's Body,' 'My Country, 'tis of thee,' 'Rally 
round the Flag,' and the 'Star-Spangled Banner.' 
Lowell instinctively put into words what his coun- 
trymen had in their hearts: 'The news is from 
Heaven. I felt a strange and tender exaltation. I 
wanted to laugh and I wanted to cry, and ended by 
holding my peace and feeling devoutly thankful. 
There is something magnificent in having a country 
to love.'" 
On a day forever memorable, the 14th of April, 



64 CROWDING MEMORIES 

in Charleston Harbor, where four years earlier the 
war began, a national thanksgiving was being cele- 
brated. Lee's surrender and the fall of Richmond 
were considered the end of the insurrection, and the 
Government had resolved that on this anniversary 
the flag of the Union should receive a conspicuous 
salute on the spot where, ingloriously, it had been 
hauled down. Precisely at the hour of noon General 
Robert Anderson hoisted to its place above Fort 
Sumter's ruins the identical flag which he, in bitter 
humiliation, had been forced to lower four years 
before. 

Sumter saluted the flag with one hundred guns. 
Every little fort and battery which had fired upon 
the garrison at the commencement of the war, now 
gave a national salute. The people sang the " Star- 
Spangled Banner," Henry Ward Beecher delivered 
an impressive oration, "and while the rejoicing 
went on echoes of a jubilation resounded through- 
out the North." 

At Washington this 14th day of April (ever to be 
remembered in the annals of history) was one of 
peace and thanksgiving. The President, who had 
intently watched the campaigns and studied the 
battles, was now somewhat relieved from the re- 
sponsibility and hourly anxiety which insistently 
had filled his days and nights. The inexpressible sad- 
ness that had become almost a permanent expres- 



CROWDING MEMORIES 65 

slon of his eyes was less noticeable; the furrows 
which sleepless nights had imprinted on the kindly- 
face seemed less marked on this Good Friday, the 
day ordained to be his last on earth. General Grant 
had arrived in Washington that morning and had 
gone to the White House. The President related to 
him an ominous dream he had the night before of 
a strange and indescribable vessel, moving swiftly 
toward a dark and boundless shore. " It is my usual 
dream," he said in describing it, "and has preceded 
every important event of the war." 

Later in the day there had been a cabinet meet- 
ing, and the subject of reconstruction was taken 
up. At the close of the meeting, the President im- 
pressively said, "Reconstruction is the great ques- 
tion pending, and we now must begin to act in the 
interest of peace." The rest of the day was one of 
unusual enjoyment, passed with his family and in- 
timate friends. 

In Boston, on the memorable evening, an enthusi- 
astic audience had filled every available seat in the 
large Boston Theatre, listening with ardent interest 
and applause to Mr. Booth's portrayal of Sir Edward 
Mortimer in "The Iron Chest," a play written by 
George Colman, the younger, in which Edmund 
Kean achieved a great triumph. The notice of the 
play for that evening, copied from the "Boston 
Herald" of that date, follows: 



66 CROWDING MEMORIES 

BOSTON THEATRE 

Henry C. Jarrett Lessee and Manager 

Tonight [April 14] 

FAREWELL BENEFIT OF 
EDWIN BOOTH 

Who will appear as Sir Edward Mortimer in 

THE IRON CHEST 

and as 

DON C^SAR DE BAZAN 

Doors open at 7| ; to commence at yf . 

Tomorrow Afternoon, Mr. Booth as Hamlet, and his last 

appearance. 

At the same hour, at Ford's Theatre in Washing- 
ton, the following bill was being presented: 

FORD'S THEATRE 
Tenth Street, Above E 

Season II Week XXXI Night 19 

Whole Number of Nights, 495 

John T. Ford Proprietor and Manager 

(Also of Holllday St. Theatre, Bahimore 
and Academy of Music, Phil'a) 

Stage Manager J. B. Wright 

Treasurer H. Clay Ford 



CROWDING MEMORIES 67 

Friday Evening, April 14TH, 1865 

BENEFIT! 

AND 

LAST NIGHT 

OF MISS 
LAURA KEENE 

The Distinguished Manageress, Authoress and Actress 
supported by 

Mr. John Dyott 

and 
Mr. Harry Hawk 

Tom Taylor's Celebrated Eccentric Comedy 

As originally produced in America by Miss Keene 

and performed by her upwards of 

One Thousand Nights 

ENTITLED 

OUR AMERICAN COUSIN 

Florence Teenchard Miss Laura Keene 

(Her Original Character) 

Abel Murcott, Clerk to Attorney John Dyott 

Asa Trenchard ^ Harry Hawk 

Sir Edward Trenchard T. C. Gourlay 

Lord Dundreary E. A. Emerson 

Mr. Coyle, Attorney J. Matthews 

Lieutenant Vernon, R. N. W. J. Ferguson 

Captain De Boots C. Byrnes 

BiNNEV G. G. Spear 

BuDDicoMB, a valet J. H. Evans 

John Whicker, a gardener J. L. De Bonay 

Rasper, a groom 

Bailiffs G. A. Parkhurst and L. Johnson 

Mary Trenchard Miss J. Gourlay 

Mrs. Montchessington Mrs. H. Muzzy 

Augusta Mrs. H. Trueman 

Georgiana Miss M. Hart 

Sharpe Mrs. J. H. Evans 

Skillet Miss M. Gourlay 



68 CROWDING MEMORIES 

Saturday Evening, April 15 

Benefit of Miss Jennie Gourlay when will be presented 

Boucicault's Great Sensational Drama 

THE OCTOROON 

Easter Monday, April 17 

Engagement of the Young American Tragedian 

Edwin Adams 

For Twelve Nights Only 

The Prices of Admission 
Orchestra $1.00 

Dress Circle and Parguette . 75 

Family Circle .25 

Private Boxes $6 and $10 

J. R. Ford, Business Manager 

At the theatre In Washington, on the memorable 
evening of April 14, every place was taken, until 
there was no longer standing-room. The audience 
was electrical with excitement and nervous tension 
— at last the rebellion had collapsed, the war was 
over. The great Captain, whose firm and steady guid- 
ance had piloted the country through its grim peril, 
had selected this evening for the enjoyment of a 
play, and had asked his victorious general, Grant, 
and his wife, to share the pleasure. But fortunately 
the desire to see their boys a few hours earlier had 
made them cancel the engagement, and their places 
were taken by Major Henry Reed Rathbone and his 
fiancee, Miss Harris. 



CROWDING MEMORIES 69 

The President, enclosed in the seclusion of a small 
stage box on the second tier, half hidden from the 
gaze and adulation of the crowded auditorium, but 
fully conscious of the deep feeling of affection and 
confidence with which he was regarded, the happy 
evening passed until ten o'clock, when the door 
behind his chair opened noiselessly, and John Wilkes 
Booth entered, holding a pistol in one hand, a knife 
in the other — seeming as if he were taking a part 
in a play. Almost instantly upon his entrance he put 
the pistol to the President's head and fired. Drop- 
ping the weapon, he took the knife in his right hand, 
and when Major Rathbone sprang toward him he 
savagely struck at him and severely wounded his 
arm. Booth then rushed forward to the rail of the 
box, and vaulted lightly onto the stage, where a foe 
he had not counted on in his conspiracy tripped and 
held him — a flag, the flag of the Union which 
he hoped to dismember. With the million men then 
under arms, any one of whom would gladly have 
given life to save this priceless life, how strange and 
subtle the fate that left the flag to be the only senti- 
nel on duty, but how well it fitted with Lincoln's 
vein of prophetic mysticism which was so strong an 
element of his character! 

Booth would have got safely away but for the 
flag which draped the box, catching his spur, and in 
falling he broke his leg, but instantly rose as if he had 



70 CROWDING MEMORIES 

received no hurt, turned to the audience and shouted 
the State motto of Virginia, "Sic semper tyrannis," 
and fled out of sight; leaped upon his horse which 
was waiting in the alley and rode rapidly away in 
the light of the just-risen moon. 

The President was carried to a small brick house 
across the street, where for nine hours he lingered in 
unconscious existence. Then a look of beautiful peace 
came to the wan face, and the great heart was at rest. 
"Nothing can touch him further." 

At the same hour that John Wilkes Booth in Wash- 
ington had played his part in the greatest tragedy 
ever enacted on any stage, Edwin Booth at the 
Boston Theatre was being called out again and 
again, to receive the tremendous applause he had 
aroused. After repeated calls the green baize cur- 
tain was rung down, and Mr. Booth went slowly 
homeward, the verses with which the comedy of 
"Don Caesar de Bazan" ends still echoing in his 
ears: 

"Long live the King! Long live the King ! Long live the King ! 
Who e'er repays our love with love again, 
Let peace be joined to length of days, 
Let peace be joined to bless his happy reign." 

As the verse repeated itself over and over in Mr. 
Booth's memory on account of the victorious re- 
joicing over Lee's surrender, the lines took a deeper 
meaning and gave a stir of pleasure in the knowl- 



CROWDING MEMORIES 71 

edge that the only vote he had ever cast was for 
Lincoln who had brought peace to his country. 

In the gray dawn of the next morning Mr. Booth 
was suddenly awakened by his black servant coming 
into his room, and as his order had always been im- 
perative that he was never to be disturbed until he 
rang, Mr. Booth angrily demanded what the intru- 
sion meant. — "Oh, Massa Edwin," came the an- 
swer, "you never could guess what has happened! 
Somethin' dreadful! The President has been shot. 
And, oh, Massa; Edwin, I am afraid Massa John has 
done it!" And then bringing his hand forward gave 
to his master the paper containing the appalling news. 

Incredulously Mr. Booth read, until he came to the 
flourish of the dagger, and the shout of "Sic semper 
tyrannis"; in that he recognized the fanatical and 
misguided spirit, the self-appointed avenger of a 
South, whose Brutus he theatrically thought himself. 

The impression of that day — the 1 5th of April 
— in New York is ineffaceable, and even now, after 
all the years that have passed, in writing of it I again 
feel the thrill and throb of emotion as in that early 
morning when Mr. Aldrich, pale and breathless, 
brought the terrible news which a journalistic friend 
had written and slipped under his door. "The Presi- 
dent is shot, and it is supposed that John Wilkes 
Booth is the assassin." This ghastly intelligence held 
for us a twofold horror — crushing sorrow for the 



72 CROWDING MEMORIES 

President, so cruelly taken in the hour of his triumph, 
and a weight of sympathy for the poor mother who 
idolized her wayward and misguided boy, who, 
fanatical for secession, had only been held from 
joining Lee's army and fighting against his country 
by his promise given in answer to his mother's 
prayer. 

Breakfast was hurriedly served, and then through 
the crowded streets, where already over the gay 
decorations of victory black trappings of woe were 
being hung, we came to the sombre household within 
whose walls a mother and sister sat stricken and 
stunned with grief, like Rachel of old refusing to 
be comforted. Outside the newsboys, with strident 
voice, were calling, "The President's death, and the 
arrest of John Wilkes Booth." While in answer to 
these words the mother moaned: "O God, if this 
be true, let him shoot himself, let him not live to be 
hung! Spare him, spare us, spare the name that 
dreadful disgrace!" Then came the sound of the 
postman's whistle, and with the ring of the doorbell 
a letter was handed to Mrs. Booth. It was from John 
Wilkes Booth, written in the afternoon before the 
tragedy. A half-sheet of a fairly good-sized letter 
paper. It was an affectionate letter, such as any 
mother would like to receive from her son, contain- 
ing nothing of any particular moment, but ghastly 
to read now, with the thought of what the feelings 



CROWDING MEMORIES 73 

of the man must have been who held the pen m writ- 
ing it, knowing what overwhelming sorrow the next 
hours would bring, and vaguely groping by affection- 
ate words to bring to her whom he loved most some 
alleviation, some ray of light in the darkness in which 
he was to envelop her. 

There had been a telegram received from Boston 
which said Mr. Booth would take the midnight train 
and be with his mother early in the morning. It bade 
her hope. Through the unending hours of that awful 
day Mr. Booth shut himself within his room, his 
prayerful wish that the frenzied mob might seek and 
find him and end his misery. And ever present in his 
memory was the agonizing thought of his mother 
in her wretchedness and grief, for John Wilkes was 
her idol, her youngest bom, and whatever the 
world might find of him unlovely he was to her a 
most devoted son. 

The next morning at Mr. Booth's house in New 
York a small group of friends awaited his coming. 
The figure that stepped from the carriage, wrapped 
in a long cloak, with a soft hat drawn close over his 
face, was as spectral as if the grave had given up its 
dead. It seemed the visible incarnation of grief of 
such depth that face and figure seemed turned to 
stone. As the little group of friends came forward 
with silent greeting his were the only eyes without 
tears. 



74 CROWDING MEMORIES 

In the sad days following this home-coming, Mr. 
Aldrich was Mr. Booth's constant companion, a vigil 
that was not without threatening danger, as daily- 
letters, notes, and messages came to the house ad- 
dressed to Mr. Booth warning him that the name of 
Booth should be exterminated. None should bear it 
and live. "Bullets were marked for him and his 
household." "His house would be burnt." Cries for 
justice and vengeance, and every other indignity that 
hot indignation and wrathful words could indite. 

Through the long hours of those days and nights 
Mr. Booth sat in almost frozen silence. There was 
but one ray of hope in that desolate household — 
the hope that John Wilkes might not live to be hung, 
that they might be spared that last disgrace. Through 
the sad waiting no unkind word was spoken of the 
son and brother whose misconception and unbal- 
anced brain had brought the great calamity and sor- 
row to the Nation and to them. His biased thought 
was as plainly interpreted in those piteous days as 
when later they read in his diary, a week after he 
had killed the President, "I am hunted like a dog 
through swamps and woods . . . with every man's 
hand against me ... for doing what Brutus was 
honored for." 

Until after the capture and death of John Wilkes, 
Mr. Aldrich was constantly with Mr. Booth — sat 
with him through the mournful days, and waked 



CROWDING MEMORIES 75 

with him through the interminable nights. Over 
their bed hung a Hfe-sized portrait of John Wilkes. 
When the bedroom lights were put out and the glim- 
mer of the street lights flickered faintly in through 
the closed shutters, the portrait to their excited 
imaginations seemed to become animate — a living 
presence, and watched with them through the night, 
holding sleep from their eyelids. An unexplainable 
feeling of infinite pity for the poor misguided ghost, 
a fugitive and wanderer, fleeing from pursuit, with- 
out place to lay his head, and asking shelter. Neither 
had the heart or the courage to order its removal. 

On the tenth day of waiting in this bereaved and 
unhappy household a telegram came from Philadel- 
phia to Mrs. Booth asking that she would come 
there at once, as Mrs. Clarke, her daughter, was 
seriously ill. 

Mr. Aldrich and Mr. Thompson were with Mr. 
Booth when the telegram came. Mr. Thompson of- 
fered to take Mrs. Booth to the train for Philadel- 
phia, which unfortunately started from Jersey City, 
and entailed the long drive through the crowded 
streets. When Mr. Thompson had his charge in the 
carriage he was startled by the loud call of a news- 
boy crying, " Death of John Wilkes Booth. Capture 
of his companion." Mr. Thompson made some 
trivial excuse which enabled him to close the win- 
dows and draw down the curtains, and all through 



76 CROWDING MEMORIES 

the endless way to the ferry was the accompaniment 
of this shrill and tragic cry, which Mr. Thompson 
struggled by loud and incessant talk to smother, 
that it might not reach the ears of the broken-hearted 
mother until he had an opportunity to buy a paper 
and know if the news was true. On the arrival at the 
boat he hurried the shrouded figure in his charge to 
a secluded corner of the deck, where he hoped she 
might escape, both in sight and hearing, the excite- 
ment that was seething about her. 

When he had found a seat in the crowded train for 
Mrs. Booth, he left her for a moment and bought a 
newspaper, and had time only to put it in her hand, 
and to say : "You will need now all your courage. The 
paper in your hand will tell you what, unhappily, we 
must all wish to hear. John Wilkes is dead" ; and as 
he spoke the car slowly started, leaving Mr. Thomp- 
son only time to spring to the platform. On the mov- 
ing train, surrounded by strangers, the poor mother 
sat alone in her misery, while every one about her, 
unconscious of her presence, was reading and talking, 
with burning indignation, of her son, the assassin 
of the President. Before the train had reached its 
journey's end, Mrs. Booth, with wonderful forti- 
tude and self-restraint, had read the pitiful story 
of her misguided boy's wanderings, capture, and 
death. And alone in her wall of silence read — "Tell 
my mother that I died for my country." 



CHAPTER VIII 

THE Government had issued a proclamation 
that at Washington, on May 22 and 23, there 
would be a grand review of the army. This announce- 
ment was accepted by the country that the war was 
at an end; by the soldiers that their services were 
no longer needed in the field ; by the officers and civil 
rulers that the armed resistance to the sundering of 
the United States had ceased, and that to the un- 
happy struggle of the preceding years "finis" would 
now be written. 

Mr. Aldrich and his young fiancee were invited 
to come to Washington for this inspiring pageant, 
their host a colonel in the regular army, who had 
learned the business of war at West Point, and who 
was for the moment living outside the city in one 
of the fine old Southern mansions, whose owners, 
father and son, had joined the Confederates and died 
on the field, leaving in the old home a heart-broken 
wife and mother, and the two or three loyal slaves 
who still remained, protecting and shielding as much 
as possible the pale mourners whom they felt to be 
their charge. 

Very impressive to the young girl was the arrival 
at the crowded station at Washington in the early 



78 CROWDING MEMORIES 

evening — the throngs of people, soldiers, civilians, 
women and children in the indescribable tumult and 
confusion of arriving and departing trains, the pan- 
demonium ; the coming of a handsome young aide- 
de-camp, with his tarnished shoulder-straps, de- 
tailed for escort duty ; the pomp and circumstance of 
the four orderlies who accompanied him ; the rapid 
drive over the long bridge ; the rhythmical clatter of 
the orderlies' horses as they followed the carriage. 

The last traces of color were fading from the sky as 
the handsome young officer led the way up the steps 
of a white porch, which the heavy bloom of a trum- 
pet vine shaded.. Inside the open door two sentries 
stood, resting on their rifles, and outside, away some- 
where in the distance, a band was playing, "The 
Girl I Left Behind Me." 

There is still a very vivid memory of a dining-room 
in that old-time Southern mansion, and the dinner 
the first night of our arrival. The table set with a 
service of antique English glass ; the china bearing the 
Spode mark; and over the mantel an oil painting of 
the grim face of Andrew Jackson, dressed in the re- 
galia of a general, and looking down on us from his 
carved and gilt frame. The dinner was served by a 
gray-haired black servitor, whose careworn face was 
wrinkled and seared. And although the law declared 
he was no longer a slave, but a free man, the owner 
of himself, he wore still his visible chains — chains 



CROWDING MEMORIES 79 

stronger than iron or steel could forge — Love and 
Devotion to the two women left in his care, and who, 
were he slave or free, would still own him until Death 
severed the tie. 

From the time of President Lincoln's death all in- 
signia of rejoicing had been over at the Capital until 
the day of the grand review of the victorious army. 
But on that day the city was gaily festooned and 
garlanded with the National colors, floating flags, 
and martial music. All day long the Army of the 
Potomac marched down Pennsylvania Avenue pass- 
ing the grandstand occupied by the President and 
his Cabinet and the commanding generals of the 
war. On the next day came the armies of the West 
— the men who had marched with Sherman to the 
sea — tramping they came, Custis, Sherman, and 
other heroes garlanded with flowers, cheers from the 
vast multitude of men and women ringing in their 
ears every step of the way — a splendid spectacle, 
the greatest military pageant in the history of Amer- 
ica and one of the greatest in the history of the 
world. But despite the brilliant sunshine, the gay 
mass of colors, the excited crowds that everywhere 
blocked the streets, the rushing to and fro of officers 
and soldiers, the beating of drums, the resounding 
echo of the cavalry hurrying from post to post, there 
was the sadness that dominated, every heart, and 
made of it a silent mourner for the Chief taken so 



So CROWDING MEMORIES 

cruelly from his day of triumph. For our host's 
party there were seats reserved on the grandstand, 
very near the new President ; and as general after 
general, troops after troops, passed and saluted, 
the wild enthusiasm and thunder of applause smoth- 
ered and almost deadened the music of the bands, 
which with the torn and frayed battle-flags became 
to the mind as a set of bells tuned to each other — 
a psean and a dirge. 

The assassination of Lincoln was but a part of a 
treasonable conspiracy entered into by the instiga- 
tors of that crime. The evil purpose had been to 
murder simultaneously the President, his Secretary 
of State, the Vice-President, and the Commander- 
in-Chief of the armies. The scheme was frustrated, 
although the attempt was made to keep the unholy 
covenant, and at the time of the grand review a mili- 
tary court was in session for the trial of the eight 
conspirators arrested. 

The Secretary of War, Mr. Stanton, had kindly 
given us a pass to this military tribunal and to Ford's 
Theatre, and had also detailed for our escort a young 
officer at whose magic touch all doors opened. Our 
first visit was to the theatre, which was strongly 
guarded by soldiers, both outside and inside. The 
stage was still set with all the mise en scene, as on that 
eventful evening of the President's death. In the box 
from behind the curtain that had shaded his chair I 



CROWDING MEMORIES 8i 

picked up a play-bill that might have fallen from his 

hand. From the theatre we went to the small brick 

house across the street where the President was 

carried unconscious, and where he died. Lincoln's 

strong personality still left in that humble room the 

vague feeling of 

"A presence that eludes the eye, 
Some subtlety that seems to stay." 

The military court was held in a small room in the 
old arsenal. The surroundings were in their gloomy 
and sombre shade well fitted for the recital of the 
grim tragedy. The glittering of the uniforms of the 
officers who composed the court made a sharp con- 
trast with the wretched prisoners, who were lined 
up against the walls of the room with a guard upon 
each side of them. 

Young Herold, a druggist's clerk who had joined 
John Wilkes Booth immediately after the assassi- 
nation, and had been with him during the ten days 
that preceded their capture, was under the fire of 
cross-questionings as we entered the court-room. It 
was a very slight and boyish figure that fronted his 
stem judges, the face set and colorless like yellow 
wax, with freckles that seemed almost to illuminate 
the waxen surface. The brown eyes were in expres- 
sion as a deer that had been wounded; the whole 
body and face vibrant with anxious fear, like an an- 
imal that has been trapped and sees no escape. One 



82 CROWDING MEMORIES 

turned away from it with a feeling that no mortal 
had the right to look at a soul so naked and unveiled. 

At the end of the line sat Lewis Payne, whose 
attempt had been to murder William H. Seward, 
Secretary of State. In his face there was depicted 
neither anxiety nor interest. During the time we were 
in the court-room, Payne, who was sitting near the 
open window, watched the swaying of a tree, face 
and figure expressing indifference to all the transitory 
things of life — life which he seemed to have no 
further Interest in. One could not but wonder, look- 
ing at him as he sat so undisturbed and motionless, 
what was the composition of his thought. 

Mrs. Surratt sat more toward the centre of the 
group. She was rather a large woman, wearing a 
rusty black woollen dress, and most of the time held 
before her face a large palm-leaf fan. Of the other 
five prisoners who were charged with conspiracy and 
the murder of Lincoln, I have no very distinct re- 
membrance, beyond the tragic vision of seeing them 
hand-cuffed and an officer standing on each side of a 
sitting figure. 

We came out through a private door of the court- 
room which was in the second story of the building, 
and as we descended a spiral staircase set in grim 
gray stone a figure coming up the stairs for the 
moment blocked the way. It was Mr. Edwin Booth 
whom the Government had sent for; but happily 



CROWDING MEMORIES 83 

for him, he was not called upon to testify. Years 
later, when the excitement of war was over, the 
Government sent word to Mr. Booth of the place 
of burial of John Wilkes and gave the right of re- 
interment. 

At the end of the trial of the conspirators, the 
judge-advocate, John A. Bingham, said: 

"Whatever else may befall, I trust in God that in 
this, as in every other American Court, the rights of 
the whole people shall be respected, and that the Re- 
public in this, its supreme hour of trial, will be true 
to itself and just to all, ready to protect the rights 
of the humblest, to redress every wrong, to avenge 
every crime, to vindicate the majesty of law, and 
to maintain inviolate the Constitution, whether as- 
sailed secretly or openly, or by hosts armed with 
gold, or armed with steel." 



CHAPTER IX 

AFTER the mustering-out of the million of sol- 
diers who had bravely risked life and fortune 
to preserve the Union, and give freedom to the slave, 
slowly men returned again to the duties and inter- 
ests that had preceded the Civil War. Wounds of 
body and spirit healed, and even summer itself be- 
came an accomplice. 

"Ah, with what delicate touches of her hand, 
With what sweet voice of bird and rivulet. 
And drowsy murmur of the rustling leaf. 
Would Nature soothe us, bidding us forget 
The awful crime of this distracted land. 
And all our heavy heritage of grief." 

Of this year, Mr. Greenslet in his biography of 
Mr. Aldrich says: 

"In the autumn of 1865 three events occurred 
which definitely marked that year as the true an- 
nus mirahilis of our poet's life: his collected poems 
were published in the authentic Ticknor & Fields 
Blue and Gold Series; he was established in a singu- 
larly pleasant editorial chair; and he was married. 

"The summer had passed pleasantly for Aldrich, 
happy in his love and poetic labor. Part of the sum- 
mer was spent in Portsmouth, and there Miss Wood- 
man likewise came on a visit. How pleasant that was 



CROWDING MEMORIES 85 

no one can realize who has not guided a sympathetic 
sweetheart through the Happy Hunting Grounds of 
his boyhood." 

It was during this visit to the old "Nutter House" 
that a letter came which was to prove so momentous 
in the lives of both. Of this letter Mr. Greenslet 
writes : 

" It lies before me now as I write, a yellowing bit 
of paper with some black marks on it, a queer faded 
thing to have caused so much joyful excitement 
forty years ago: 

"'Dear Aldrich, — We have decided to do 
" Every Saturday," and that T. B. A. is the man to 
edit it. Please meet me on Sunday at the St. Denis 
at as early an hour as convenient, — say nine o'clock, 
— and we will decide upon the details. 
Yours truly, 

'"J. R.Osgood.' 

"The 'details' were arranged to the entire satis- 
faction of both parties, and it was decided that the 
paper should make its bow in Boston on the first of 
January, 1866. At the time, however, it was not 
precisely the conduct of the paper that was first in 
Aldrich's thoughts. . . . There was no delay, or elab- 
orate preparation. He was married to Miss Wood- 
man in New York on November 28, 1865. Bayard 
Taylor wrote a sonnet for the occasion — one of his 
best. 



86 CROWDING MEMORIES 

"TO T. B. A. AND L. W. 

"Sad Autumn, drop thy weedy crown forlorn, 
Put off thy cloak of cloud, thy scarf of mist, 
And dress in gauzy gold and amethyst 

A day benign, of sunniest influence born, 

As may befit a Poet's marriage-morn ! 
Give buds another dream, another tryst 
To loving hearts, and on lips unkissed 

Betrothal -kisses, laughing Spring to scorn! 
Yet, if unfriendly thou, with sullen skies. 

Bleak rains, or moaning winds, dost menace wrong, 
Here art thou foiled: a bridal sun shall rise. 

And bridal emblems unto these belong: 
Round her the sunshine of her beauty lies, 

And breathes round him the spring-time of his song!" 

On November 27 Mr. Aldrich wrote to his sweet- 
heart: "This is the last letter I shall probably write 
to Miss Lilian Woodman. I pray God's blessing on 
her now and forever." 

A series of impressions, pictures not yet sorted out 
by memory, linger of those early, blithesome days 
in Boston, when "Life was in its spring." Mr. 
Greenslet has so graphically described the environ- 
ment of those happy honeymoon months that again 
I quote from his pages: 

" It was not long before the Aldriches found them- 
selves sharing the communities of friendship with 
the elder circle. Fields and his poet-wife took them 
under a friendly wing, and it was in their long draw- 
ing-room in Charles Street, a rich treasury of lettered 



CROWDING MEMORIES 87 

memories, whose windows now look somewhat sadly 
out upon the river, and the sunset, that they first 
came to terms of intimacy with Longfellow, Lowell, 
Holmes, and Emerson. Our poet's charming personal 
presence and ready wit soon made him a favorite 
with the elder men, and the acquaintance thus begun 
speedily ripened into affectionate friendship. 

" Five minutes' walk from Hancock Street, in the 
building at 124 Tremont Street, at the comer of 
Hamilton Place, overlooking the Common, were the 
offices of Ticknor & Fields, and there in a commodi- 
ous room, with bookshelves and an open fire, Al- 
drich applied himself to the editing of * Every Satur- 
day,' an eclectic weekly supposed to carry the best 
of foreign periodical literature." 

Soon after Mr. Aldrich was so comfortably seated 
in this ideal editor's chair, another pilgrim, "with 
staff and sandal shoon," came to share in the new 
life, rich in its enchanted vista of prosperity and joy 
— Mr. William Dean Howells — as assistant editor 
of the "Atlantic Monthly," sharing the duties of 
editorship with Mr. Fields. In his " Literary Friends 
and Acquaintance," Mr. Howells has written of 
their first meeting: 

" The publishing house which so long embodied 
New England literature was already attempting 
enterprises out of the line of its traditions, and one 
of these had brought Mr. T. B. Aldrich a few weeks 



88 CROWDING MEMORIES 

before I arrived upon the scene. Mr. Aldrlch was the 
editor of 'Every Saturday,' when I came to be as- 
sistant editor of the 'Atlantic Monthly.' We were of 
nearly the same age, but he had a distinct and dis- 
tinguished priority of reputation, in so much that in 
my Western remoteness I had always ranged him 
with such elders and betters of mine as Holmes and 
Lowell, and never imagined him the blond slight 
youth I found him, with every imaginable charm of 
contemporaneity." 

The two young authors were thrown much to- 
gether, and became at once the warmest of friends. 
Mr. Howells had a charming personality, happy and 
gay, in love with literature and all that pertained 
to it. His Pegasus, being well broken to harness, 
daily, at a regular hour, went willingly into his 
shafts and soberly trotted away his allotted hours, to 
the envy and despair of Mr. Aldrich. His Pegasus, 
being most unruly, always refused to work when 
bidden, curveting and rearing, kicking over the 
traces, and usually ending by galloping over the 
hills and far away. 

Mr. Howells received the appointment of Consul 
to Venice when he was twenty-four years old, hold- 
ing it from 1861 to 1865. The four years in Italy were 
full of interest to his young bride and himself. They 
had established themselves at the Casa Faliero on 
the Grand Canal, and there the " Sketches of Vene- 




WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS 



CROWDING MEMORIES 89 

tian Life" was written, and offered to the "Atlan- 
tic" — to be declined with thanks. 

Very amusing was Mrs. Howells's description of 
the difficulties they experienced in achieving the 
marriage ceremony, and the ludicrously disappoint- 
ing failures met with before it was accomplished. 

Mr. Howells could not leave his consulship duties 
for the length of time it would take for the fast ships 
of that time to cross the ocean. (Eleven days.) It 
was decided that Miss Mead and her brother would 
go to Liverpool, Mr. Howells to meet them there on 
the arrival of the steamer. They would go at once to 
the house of a minister and be married, and then 
would slowly take their joyous wedding journey to 
Venice. But fate remorselessly decreed otherwise. 

Miss Mead's wedding and " go-away-gown " was 
combined in one, a simple brown dress and coat, 
with the close little bonnet with its one bridal rose; 
her new gloves were a shade lighter than her dress, 
and loose, that she might easily slip and free the 
finger for the wedding ring. As the steamer dropped 
anchor in the Mersey, and her lover from the ap- 
proaching tender waved his greeting, there was a 
little catch in her throat with the knowledge how 
imminent was the hour when the irrevocable words 
would be spoken — the vows taken that would end 
only with death. When the excitement of the meet- 
ing had subsided a little, Mr. Howells said he had 



90 CROWDING MEMORIES 

been disappointed in procuring a marriage license; 
the law in Liverpool made a residence of some days 
or weeks obligatory before a marriage could be le- 
galized; consequently they must journey up to Lon- 
don where the technical difficulties would be simpli- 
fied. To London they gaily went, but met there with 
no better success. Like "Japhet in Search of his 
Father" they went on from city to city, from coun- 
try to country, until after four or five wearisome 
days they arrived somewhere, where after sore tribu- 
lations the quest ended, and the marriage was sol- 
emnized. Mrs. Howells, between a smile and a tear, 
said, ** The new gloves I had so proudly put on as we 
left the ship were all out at the fingers, and my 
spirit was like my gloves, torn and frayed at the 
edges." 

Boston in the sixties had the reputation, deserved 
or otherwise, of being puritanical and rather pro- 
vincial in its attitude toward strangers. But to the 
four young persons who had sought shelter within 
the fold the advice Mr. Ward McAllister gave to 
one of the pilgrims he met at Mrs. Howe's, " To 
swear she had an ancestor buried on Boston Com- 
mon, that all doors might be opened to her," did not 
need to be taken to insure a kindly welcome to the 
inner shrines. Invitations to dinner and to evening 
parties were constantly coming to both houses: 
**The pleasure of your company to meet Mr. and 



CROWDING MEMORIES 91 

Mrs. Howells": "The pleasure of your company to 
meet Mr. and Mrs. Aldrich"; until the recipients of 
these attentions with hysterical laughter and al- 
most tears confessed the relief it would be to go 
somewhere — anywhere, where they would never 
hear or see each other again. 

In that happy first winter, one episode is always 
a delightful memory: the meeting of Mr. Justin 
Winsor and the friendship that followed. 

Very shortly after Mr. Aldrich's marriage an ap- 
preciative criticism of one of his poems was pub- 
lished in a New York paper, "The Round Table." 
Mr. Aldrich wrote a note of thanks to the writer, 
who answered it by saying that he lived in Boston, 
and should give himself the pleasure of calling. The 
note was soon followed by the promised visit. 

The impression of that evening is very clear, a 
face and figure sharply outlined in memory. A tall 
man, rather stout, who was in truth but thirty-four 
years old, looking, however, much older; quiet in 
manner, very bookish in talk. He was dressed in 
black, the seams of his coat rather shiny. Mr. Winsor 
spoke of a life he was writing of David Garrick, and 
said that unfortunately he had collected such a mass 
of material of that time that the task of sifting 
it seemed hopelessly discouraging. When the door 
finally closed upon the departing guest, the verdict 
was: how much he seemed to enjoy his evening; evi- 



92 CROWDING MEMORIES 

dently a recluse, shut away from the world of men 
and women ; seeing life only through other eyes and 
written pages. Later, the shining seams were spoken 
of, and Mr. Aldrich, always eager to be of assistance, 
said, ** I might give him some translations to do for 
'Every Saturday' from the French and German 
magazines. The pay would not be much, but it 
would be something." 

The next day the offer was made and accepted 
with apparent gratitude. Mr. Winsor, in bringing the 
first translation to the office of " Every Saturday," 
said "that he would be much pleased if the Editor 
and his wife would name a day when they would be 
at leisure for a drive, and under his guidance learn 
the points of interest in their new city." Mr. Aldrich 
made a conventional excuse and the subject was 
dropped, to be again resumed when the next article 
was brought to the editorial chair. After declining 
several times, it seemed more unkind to refuse than 
to accept the invitation. With great reluctance a 
day was set, and imagination pictured a one-horse 
shay, the small sum of money made by the French 
and German translations ground into dust under its 
wheels, and the two unwilling beneficiaries power- 
less to avert the unnecessary expenditure. There was 
a grave conference on the matter of dress for the 
occasion, and it was decreed that the usual street 
dress was much too modish and chic — that a cos- 



CROWDING MEMORIES 93 

tume more unobtrusive would be in better taste. At 
the appointed hour a slight figure in a simple brown 
woollen dress and coat looking from the window saw 
a carriage stop at the door. A handsome span of 
horses, coachman in livery, a carriage perfect in its 
appointments, and from its open door stepped, with 
the nonchalant air of possession, the gentleman of 
the translations! 

Through the shadowy mist of the receding years 
the memory of the friendship and the little drama 
enacted nearly every day through that first winter 
in Boston is very clear and perfect ; the stage set in 
one scene: a large square room, old-fashioned and 
wainscoted — a glowing open fire, books and pic- 
tures, and always a vase of flowers. With very few 
exceptions during those wintry days, at four o'clock 
there would be heard a light tap at the door, and the 
questioning hesitation of a voice asking, "Shall I 
disturb you if I come for a half -hour's chat and a 
seat at your fireside?" The dramatis personcB were 
but two in this little play: A young girl who knew 
little of book-lore, and a man who had been a stu- 
dent at Heidelberg and Paris; a classmate of Presi- 
dent Eliot, John Quincy Adams, and Professor A. S. 
Hill, J. M. Pierce, and other equally well-known 
scholars — a man of unusual learning, of tenacious 
memory, and with an intimate knowledge of books 
and all that relates to them most amazing. 



94 CROWDING MEMORIES 

The programme of the hour was ever the same. 
The largest and easiest chair drawn to the fire, and 
while the tea was brewing the long fork held and 
toasted the bread. Sometimes there was pleasant 
talk, and sometimes long silence, but always the 
two were the most companionable of comrades. Al- 
though Mr. Winsor could in truth be named a verita- 
ble bookworm — versed in all literature, a man of 
letters in the fullest sense of the word — in this hour 
books were rarely talked of. Mr. David Garrick was 
often present, real and tangible as Hamlet's ghost, 
he appeared and disappeared, and came again, often 
making a third in many a cheerful duet. 

In the following year there was a vacancy In the 
board of trustees of the Boston Public Library, and 
it was the happy fortune of Mr. Winsor's young 
friend to speak of him in this connection to a man 
high up in the city's affairs. The result was the au- 
thority given to ask Mr. Winsor whether, if a place 
was offered to him, he would accept it, and with 
his affirmative answer he unconsciously entered on 
his great career. 

Years afterwards, at a congress of librarians in a 
notable address, Mr. Winsor told how a door held 
open to him by the hand of a young woman friend 
had given him entrance to a new world — his 
heart's desire. 

Mr. Winsor was librarian in succession to the Bos- 



CROWDING MEMORIES 95 

ton Public Library and Harvard University. In the 
radical change of the administrations of all great 
libraries he was a pioneer, and future organizers will 
have to begin by accepting all of Mr. Winsor's work 
as a foundation. 

With the broader sphere and active duties of his 
new position he could no longer be a recluse — a 
student living in the shadow of his library, with its 
carven shelves filled with books from floor to ceiling, 
where day after day he had passed his silent hours. 
In place of the life that now lay behind him, "to a 
very large number of men he gave himself and his 
stores of knowledge, with a completeness of interest 
in their problems and in themselves, and a power of 
detachment from his own concerns, which made 
them turn to him as to no other adviser." With us, 
however, with the passing of this year the intimate 
bonds of his friendship seemed loosened. When our 
Lares and Penates were transferred to the new 
home, we saw Mr. Winsor but seldom. He came two 
or three times to the house, but was silent and dis- 
trait. After a serious illness of his young friend, he 
sent her a huge box of roses with an affectionate 
note, and from that time there was ever silence. 

"Was it something said. 
Something done, 
Vexed him? Was it touch of hand, 
Turn of head?" 



CHAPTER X 

IN the "Life" of Mr. Aldrich his biographer says: 
" Despite the pleasantness of the life at Hancock 
Street, the Aldriches were from the first looking 
about for a still more homelike shelter. Finally in 
December, 1866, Aldrich purchased the quaint little 
house 84 Pinckney Street, two thirds the way down 
toward the bay where the lazy Charles rests after its 
circuitous course through the Cambridge marshes, 
and gave it to Mrs. Aldrich for his remembrance on 
the second Christmas of their life together. They 
furnished it at their leisure during the winter and 
settled there in the spring of 1867. Of the character- 
istic charm of this their first home there are many 
records. The compact little house soon became cele- 
brated as the happy home of a happy poet." 

It was in the autumn of this year that Boston had 
the great excitement of welcoming Mr. Dickens on 
his second visit to America. For several years Mr. 
Fields had been persistent in his efforts to induce 
Mr. Dickens to make the visit; but it was not until 
this time that the suggestion received any encour- 
agement. In the early spring Mr. Dickens wrote to 
Mr. Fields the following letter: 

"Your letter is an excessively difficult one to 



CROWDING MEMORIES 97 

answer, because I really do not know that any sum 
of money that could be laid down would induce me 
to cross the Atlantic to read. Nor do I think it likely 
that any one on your side of the great water can 
be prepared to understand the state of the case. For 
example, I am now just finishing a series of thirty 
readings. The crowds attending them have been so 
astounding, and the relish for them has so far out- 
gone all previous experience, that if I were to set 
myself the task, * I will make such or such a sum of 
money by devoting myself to readings for a certain 
time,' I should have to go no further than Bond 
Street or Regent Street, to have it secured to me in a 
day. Therefore, if a specific offer and a very large 
one, indeed, were made to me from America, I 
should naturally ask myself, 'Why go through this 
wear and tear, merely to pluck fruit that grows on 
every bough at home? ' It is a delightful sensation to 
move a new people; but I have but to go to Paris, 
and I find the brightest people in the world quite 
ready for me. I say thus much in a sort of desperate 
endeavor to explain myself to you. I can put no 
price upon fifty readings in America, because I do 
not know that any possible price could pay me for 
them. And I really cannot say to any one disposed 
toward the enterprise, 'Tempt me,' because I have 
too strong a misgiving that he cannot in the nature 
of things do it. 



98 CROWDING MEMORIES 

"This is the plain truth. If any distinct proposal 
be submitted to me I will give it a distinct answer. 
But the chances are a round thousand to one that 
the answer will be no, therefore I feel bound to make 
the declaration beforehand." 

In the summer, however, things looked more 
promising; the second letter bringing more assur- 
ance : 

** I am trying hard so to free myself as to be able 
to come over to read this next winter!" 

On the 2 1st of August he writes: "I begin to 
think 'nautically' that I 'Head westward.'" And 
soon after that the date was set for sailing. 

It was on a blustering evening in November that 
Mr. Dickens arrived in Boston Harbor. A few of his 
friends steamed down in the Custom-House boat to 
welcome him. It was pitch dark before the Cuba ran 
alongside. Mr. Dickens's cheery voice was heard 
welcoming Mr. Fields before there was time to dis- 
tinguish him on the steamer. He looked like a bun- 
dle of animated wraps, and was in most exuberant 
spirits; the news of the extraordinary sale of the 
tickets to his readings having been carried to him by 
the pilot twenty miles out. Mr. Fields, having heard 
that a crowd had assembled in East Boston and was 
waiting the arrival of the steamer, decided to take 
his guest in the tug to Long Wharf where carriages 
were in waiting, and very shortly Mr. Dickens was 



CROWDING MEMORIES 99 

well ensconced at the Parker House, sitting down to 
dinner with a half-dozen friends, quite prepared, he 
said, "to give the first reading in America that night 
if desirable." 

There had been the greatest excitement over the 
sale of the tickets for the readings. A box office was 
established at Ticknor & Fields', and a rule made 
that only four tickets would be sold to one person. 
A queue was formed twenty-four hours before the 
sale began, and the stir and commotion for places in 
the line were without precedent heretofore in the 
city. As Mr. Aldrich was doing editorial work for 
Ticknor & Fields, and that house being the head- 
quarters of literary Boston, the air was full of Dick- 
ens — we breathed it. The struggles to get the best 
seats, the triumph with which, after much hustling, 
they were secured, linger most pleasantly in my 
memory, especially our own little chuckles — we 
being behind the scenes, as it were, and sure of our 
places, 

Boston has changed much since the days when she 
dined at two o'clock, asked her more formal friends 
to tea at six, and made the stranger within her gates 
the all-absorbing topic. Now we talk of balls, din- 
ners, dances, and our literary guest closes his book 
and goes to the opera or the vaudeville with us. 

What memories unfold themselves to my vision 
of that night, December 2, 1867; the night of the 



100 - CROWDING MEMORIES 

first appearance of Mr. Dickens In the Tremont 
Temple! Again I am conscious of the expectant 
hush as Mr. Dickens appears, book in hand, white 
boutonniere in buttonhole. With quick, elastic steps 
he takes his place. The whole audience spring to 
their feet, while round after round of applause, 
cheer after cheer, shout after shout of welcome greet 
him. On the stage is a simple device, designed by 
Mr. Dickens, looking like a reading-desk, with a 
light so arranged as to illuminate the reader's face; 
behind it stands a long, dark, purplish screen. With 
a magician's touch the simple desk transforms itself, 
supple to the master's will — at one time a kind of 
pulpit with brass rail, the witness box; next the en- 
closed seats where the jurymen sit; then a numerous 
muster of gentlemen in wigs, the barristers' seats; 
then it became the table for Mr. Justice Stareleigh, 
"who put his little legs underneath it and his little 
three-cornered hat upon it; and when Mr. Justice 
Stareleigh had done this, all you could see of him 
was two queer little eyes, one broad pink face, and 
somewhere about half of a big and very comical- 
looking wig. The officer on the floor of the court 
called out, ' Silence ! ' in a commanding tone, and the 
great case of Bardwell and Pickwick began," hold- 
ing the listeners still and motionless until the fore- 
man brought in the verdict of "Guilty" and fined 
the defendant seven hundred and fifty pounds. 



CROWDING MEMORIES loi 

Then Sam Weller's father touched him on the 
shoulder and, with a mournful expression, said, 
'"O, Sammy, Sammy, vy worn't there a alleybi!'" 
With this the great audience shouted with laughter, 
and the wild applause began again with gathered 
volume, until even the walls of Tremont Temple 
itself seemed to echo and vibrate as a pendulum 
disturbed from rest and swinging to and fro. 

Never to be forgotten is the accent and modu- 
lation of Mr. Dickens's voice as he spoke the words: 
"Marley was dead to begin with." The great audi- 
ence was held in breathless silence as the ghost and 
Scrooge and the jocund travellers, the phantom, 
the spirits, went and came through the pages of the 
''Christmas Carol"; until little Tiny Tim observed, 
"God bless us, every one!" And with these words, 
the wonderful evening was over. 

Walking home through the still wintry air, Mr. 
Aldrich spoke of a letter he had seen written to 
Professor Felton when the book was first published, 
showing what the writing of the book had meant to 
Mr. Dickens: 

"In the parcel you will find a Christmas Carol in 
prose, being a short story of Christmas by Charles 
Dickens, over which Christmas Carol Charles 
Dickens wept and laughed and wept again, and ex- 
cited himself in the most extraordinary manner in 
the composition, and thinking whereof he walked 



102 CROWDING MEMORIES 

about the black streets of London fifteen and twenty 
miles many a night." 

So distinct is the memory of the first time Mr. 
Dickens came to our house in Pinckney Street that 
I even see the figure in the carpet on which he stood. 
Mrs. Hawthorne had named this small house " Mrs. 
Aldrich's workbox." It was mostly composed of 
white muslin and pink ribbons, white muslin and 
blue ribbons, all excepting Mr. Aldrich's study, 
which Mr. Howells, to our great discomfiture, always 
spoke of as "Aldrich's boudoir" ; as he always spoke 
of his own study as his workshop, our feelings were 
hurt and bitter. We said to each other it was nothing 
but sheer envy, and endeavored in this way to soothe 
the wound. 

If the Sultan of Zanzibar, the Czar of all Russia, 
the Grand Mogul of India, and all the crowned 
heads of Europe combined should knock at our 
door, it would not throw the entire household into 
such a frenzy and flutter as that simple card did, 
with its magic name, "Mr. Charles Dickens." 

I well remember the quick beating of my heart 
as I descended the stairs to the "boudoir," where I 
found Mr. Dickens seated in the easiest chair in the 
bay window. A rather short, slight figure, so he 
seemed to me then, without the manner that stamps 
the caste of "Vere de Vere." He was dressed — I 
think dressed is the right word — in a very light, so 



CROWDING MEMORIES 103 

light that I don't know how to describe it — I can 
almost say soiled white color — top coat. It was 
wide and short, and stood out like a skirt, the collar 
of a much darker shade of velvet. His waistcoat was 
velvet of another shade of brown, with brilliant red 
indentations ; his watch chain was buttoned into the 
centre button of his waistcoat, and then it divided 
itself. I found myself saying, "How do you do," and 
wondering, if the watch was in one pocket, what 
was at the other end of the chain in the other pocket, 
and was tempted to ask him the time, in the hope 
that he might make a mistake and bring out the 
other thing. I don't remember what he wore on his 
feet, and I don't know the plaid of his trousers, but 
I rather think it was a black-and-white check — 
what the Englishman calls "pepper and salt." I 
don't remember any one topic of conversation on 
that first visit, but I remember well the laughter 
and good cheer; the charming way in which the 
guest made these two young people feel that to him 
they really were persons of consequence and were 
so regarded by this prince of strangers who tarried 
within their gates. 

On our first Thanksgiving In this box of a house, 
Mr. Fields by chance came in. It was a cold day 
and snowing, which made the house, in contrast to 
the "biting and nipping air" outside, seem more 
gay and cheerful with the open fires, flowers, and the 



104 CROWDING MEMORIES 

table set for dinner with the wedding presents of 
silver and glass. Mr. Fields said, "Oh, Dickens has 
got to come and see this!" So off he went to bring 
him. 

In those happy days my mainstay and depend- 
ence was an austere lady who consented to live with 
us for the modest sum of five dollars per week, which 
would include the services of herself and daughter. 
It is true that this daughter had lived in this great 
world of ours but six years; but Mrs. Sterling felt 
that Lizzie was a sufficient grown-up to answer the 
doorbell, wait at the table, and, as Mrs. Sterling 
said, "serve it all," if she, Mrs. Sterling, "waited in 
the pantry to lift the heavy dishes to and fro from 
the table." Lizzie was also an accomplished duster, 
and could run up and down stairs on all kinds of 
errands, and also knew cause and effect, as I re- 
member her assuring me one day, when the fire 
bells rang, "that she supposed some one had been 
fiddling with kerosene." 

Added to all these accomplishments, Lizzie was 
a composite portrait of all the old Dutch masters, 
in her mouse-colored dress reaching almost to the 
ground; a long white tire with full bishop sleeves, 
hair braided on each side of her brow, and tied with 
the same mouse-colored ribbon in a prim bow. 

Mr. Fields soon returned with his distinguished 
guest, who was, I remember, to dine with Mr. Long- 



THE GREAT INTERN 

Of F 

The origin of this highly exciting and important event cannot 

TH 

Articles i>f .:\sr<.'omonl oiitca'd Into al I!;ll(iimia-. in llu- I'nitril Sl.ito of America, this Tliiixl il.u 

n- year ,.f imr I...r.l one thousanil L-if;lit Inindrcd and >iM>.<'it;hl. benvecii Gl:oKi:t Uoiin, llriiisli Sul 

the Man of Ross, and JxMts kn-i Kv Us. , Aniencin Cilizcn. ,i/i„s the Boston 

Whereas. sonie liouncc ha\!n;_; .iri^en h.,t\v^en tlte ahove men in referenc 
(Kdcstrianism and agility, they liaxe agreed lo settle* their dilTerences and prov 
lictter man. by moans of a «.alkini;-niaiJi for t«o hais a side and the ylory of 
ti\e countries ; and whereas they ai;re'C that the said match shall come oii, what,' 
weather, on the .Mill Dam rtad outside Hoston on .Saturday, the Twenty-ninth d. 
present month ; and wherc.xs they agree that the personal attendants on IheniseK 
the whole walk, and also the umpires and starters and declarers of victory in the 

:.,., ,. \k J.tMKS T. Frtii.ns of Boston, known in sporting circles is M.lssachusctts Jcntniy, . 

DicKKSs of Fal.staff's Gad's Hill. «ho>e surprising ix-rformanccs (without the least 
that truly national instrument, the -Vmerican Catarrh. ha\x* won' for hjm the well- 
of The Cad's Hill Gasper. 

iVow, tht^e are to be the articles of the m.atch : — 

1. The men are to be started, on the d,ay apixiinted, by, Massachusetts Jemmy and The Gospe'r. 

2. Jemmy and The Gasj>cr arc, on some pre\ious day, to walk out at the rate of not>less than four m 
by the GasjKr's u-atch, for one hour and a h.alf. At the cx}>iration of that one hour and a h,ilf, thev aiv ti 
note the pi.ice at which they halt. On the match's coming oft', they .are, to station themselves in the midt 
ro.ad. at tltat precise point, and the tuen (keei>ing clear of Iheni and of each other) are "to turn rounil t 
shoulder inward, and w.ilk hack to the starting-pi.int. The man declaa'il by them to jKLss the starling-|K 
to lx> the \ictor and the winner of the match. 

j. .\o jostling or fouling allowed. 

4- .Ail cautions or orders issued to the men by the imipires. starters, and declarers of \ictory. to Ix* 
final and admitting of no appeal. 



THE SPO 



T H IC M 1-; N 



TiiK Boston Bantam {a/ias Bright Chanlicleeri is a yomig bird, though t.Hi old to be caught with chaff, 
of a thortuigh g.ame breed and h.ts a clear though modest crow. He pulls down the scale at ten stone 
and .add a p<iund or two. His previous {K-rformances in the l*edestrian line have not been numerous, 
achieved a neat little match against time in two left boots at Philadelphia ; but this must be- ci»nsi( 
IJcdestrian eccentricity, and cannot be .iccepted by the rigid chronicler as high art. The old mowei 
scythe and houc-glass has not yet laid his mawley heavily on the Bantam's frontispiece, but he has liad ,i i 
B,antam's top feathers, and in plucking out a handful was veiy near m.aking him like the" great NaptUeon 
(with the exception of the victu.alling<lepartmenl). when the ancient one found himself too much occui)ii'd 
out the idea, and gave it up. The Man of Ross {a/ias old .Alick Po|x". ti/iits Allourpraiseswhv-shouldlords. 
thought and a half too fleshy, and, if he accidentally sat down uixm his baby, woidtldo it to t!»e tune .of 
stone. This popular Codger is of the rubicund .and jovial .sort, and has long been known as a piscatorial p 
on the banks of the Wye. But lza.ak Walton had n't Pace. — Uwk at his book and you '11 find it slow, — a 
that article comes in question, the fishing-rod m.ay prove to .some of his disciples a rod in pickle. Ho 
.Man of Ross is a Lively Ambler and has a smart stride of his own. 

THE TRAINING. 
If Brandy Cocktails could h.ave brought both men up to the post in ti]>top feather, their condition wo 
left nothing to be desired. But both might have h.id more daily practice in the poetry of motion. Thi 
were confined to an occasional Baltimore burst under the guidance of the G.asper. and to an amicable toddle 
themselves at Washington. 

THE COURSE, ■ 

SL\ miles and a half, good measure, from the first tree on the Mill Dam road, lies the little village (with 
ments ia it but five oranges and a botde of bl.icking) of Newton Centre. Here, M.Tssachus>^tts Jemmy and the 
had established the turning-point. The road comprehended every variety of inconvenience to test the nictlU 
men, and nearly the whole of it was covered with snow. 

T H E .S T A R T 

w.as eft'ected beaiiiifully. The men. taking their stand in e.xact line at the starting-post, the fitst tree aforesaid, 
from The Gasper the warning. "Are you ready?" and then the signal. "One. two. three. Go!" .They g 
e\,actK- together, and at a spinning speed, waited on by .Massachusetts Jemmy and The Gas|)er. 



AL WALKING-MATCH 

1868. 

ted than in the articles of agreement subscribed by the parties. 
ES. 



^»mmi^ narratnv of ,hc n,.itd. u< be «rilton bv The Ga.s,HT within one week afte 
(o bo duly prinM (at the expense of the .subscribers to these articles) on a broa.is.c.e ■ ne ^-.ki . 
franK'd and glazwl. and one copy of the sa.ne to be carefully preserved by each u( the, .subscribe' 

he men to -how on the e 



imilic; 

lid 



of the day of waiting, at six o'clock precisely, at the Parke 



faced bv 



icivc 




hen and where a dinner will be- given them by The Gasper. The Gasper ., ^.uuv o,e en-ur 
etts Jemnty. Ihe latter promptly and fonnally to invite, as soon as maj- be after the date of thes' 
ins Quests to hom.r the said dinner with their p.esence : that is to s.iv : - .\Iistr,..ss .Annie Field., Mr 
hot Norton a,.d M,^ Norton. I'rofessor James Russell Lowell and Mrs. Lowell and Miss Lowell Doctor 
ndell Holn.es and Mn.. Holmes. Mr. Howard Malcom Ticknor and Mrs. Ticknor, Mr. AWrich and Mrs 
Ir. hchles.nger. and .an ob.scutx; p<K.t name^d Longfellow (if discoverable) and Miss Longfellow 
La.stly. In token of the.r accepting (he trusts and offices by these articles conferred upon them, these 
^solemnly and formally signed by ,\Ia.ssachusefts Jemmy and by the Gads Hill (;a.sper; as well as by the 

Si^nic-d by the Man of Ross, otherwise CC-e <^.^^<^ 

Signed by the Boston Uantam. otherwise 
Signed by Ma.ssachusetLs Jemmy, otherwise J a^}y^ 
.■^iSnetl by The Ga<rs Hill t,ia.sper, othcrwise<;<^iC'<^^ i-i^j!^\2_ 
he signatures. ^^-^' Vv/Zt^^ t^' 

^RATIVE. 

IHE R .A C E , 

tevth of an intense-b cold and bitter wind Ixfore which the snow Hew fa.s, and furious across the .xod from 

be Uantam slightly led. Hut The .Man responded to the .ehaIlen^e and sc«n breasted him For the 

lies ea.h led by a yard or so alternately ; bu. the walking was ^erv' even. On four miles being called 

L-r the n>e-n vvere side by side; and then ensued one of the best periods of the nice, the same- splitting 

.eld by both .hr,.ugh a heavy snow-wreatb and up a dragging hill. .At this point it was anybody's game 

Ko.ss,us -and two half^iollars on the member of the feathery tribe. When five miles were called, the 

1.11 shoulde-r .0 shoulder. At alx.ut six miles, the Gas,x-r put on a tremendous spirt to leave the men 

esLibhsh hnriself .as the turnmg-poini at the entrance of the tillage. He afterwards dc-elared that he 

lental knockjowner. on taking his statu.n and facing about, to find Bright Chanticleer close in upon him 

steaming up like a L,K:omotive. The Bantam rounded first; Rt,ssius r.nmded wide: and from tha^ 

Bantam steadily shot ahead. Though both were breathed at the turn, tlie Bantam ouicklv got hLs 

obedient condition, and blew aw,ay like an orderly Blacksn,ith in full «ork. The forcing.pumps if Rcsius 

Cd themsclve-s lough and true, and warranted first-rate, but he fell off in pace ; whereas the Bantam pegged 

IS httle dnim-sticks. as if he saw his wives and a peck of broiev waiting for him at the famiK pi^rch 

punmg upon h.ra of Ross, Chanticleer gradually drrw ahrad wilhin ., ^.en' few yards of half •, mile finallv 

lole tlislance in two hours and forty^-ight minutes. Ross h.id re.xs«l to compe't'e. three miles short' of thi 

but bravely walked it out, and came in seven mmutes later. 

REMARKS. 

culties under which this plucky match was walked can only Ix.- appreciated by those who were on the 
the excessive rigour of the icy blast, and the depth and state of the snow, must be added the constant 
the latter into the air and into the eyes of the men, while he.ads of hair, beards, eyelashes, and eye- 
■07.en into icicles. To breathe .at all, in such a rarefied and disturbed atmosphere, was not easy; but to 
the required mark was genuine, slogging, ding-dong, hard lalxir. That both competitots were game to 
doing what 'they did under such conditions, was evident to all ; but, to his gameness, the courageous 
une.x|)ected endurance, and (like the sailor's watch that did three hours to the cathedral clock's one) 
iwers of going when wound up. The knowing eye could not lail to detect considerable disparity between 
nhcleer being, as Mnjc Cratchit .said of Tiny Tim. " vm light to carr>-." and Rossius promising fair to 
.ndjty of (he .Anonymous Cove in the epigram: 

".\nd when he wallcs the Mreets th« TJiN-iour* cry. 
' Ctod bless you. sir ! ' .ind lay ibeir 1 



CROWDING MEMORIES 105 

fellow that day. After a pleasant chat in the library, 
Mr. Dickens turned to me saying, "Now I want to 
see the little maid. I have heard all about her." So 
I went on the quest; and soon the demure little 
Dutch picture walked in with her silver tray, de- 
canter, and wine-glass. Going up to Mr. Dickens she 
said, with her alluring lisp, "If you please, sir, will 
you take a glass of wine and a biscuit? " Mr. Dick- 
ens poured out his glass of wine, and with a courtly 
bow to us, and a lower one to the little maid, drank 
to our health and happiness ; and when the little maid 
departed put his head on the cushion of his chair and 
laughed and laughed. Then turning to me he said, 
"Now I want to see this wonderful house from top 
to bottom, from cellar to attic." We showed it to 
him with honest and possessive pride, and when 
his visit was over he said, in leaving, that nothing 
in our country had interested him more. We have 
wondered since if, in telling of his visit to others, he 
did not say that nothing in our country had amused 
him more. 

The next play on our happy stage of life was the 
"walking match" and the dinner Mr. Dickens gave 
to the victorious champion. 

Mr. Fields says, in his "Yesterdays with Au- 
thors," that it was in Baltimore that Mr. Dickens 
conceived his idea of a walking match between Mr. 
Osgood and Mr. Dolby, and that he went into this 



io6 CROWDING MEMORIES 

matter with as much earnest directness as If he were 
planning a new novel. 

The articles of this joyous joke were drawn up 
and sent to the house of Ticknor & Fields with as 
much circumstance and official dignity as if they 
were papers relating to the making of a new presi- 
dent. 

When this great international battle was over, and 
America had won, came the brilliant dinner at the 
Parker House. ^ Impressed on my memory for all 
time will be the picture of that night: a long table 
with its beautiful arrangement of flowers arranged 
by Mr. Dickens himself, and so designed that at 
the end of the feast they easily disintegrated, giv- 
ing each woman a lovely bouquet de corsage. The 
dinner place cards were an innovation new to Boston. 
Mine was a gay little colored picture of a table laid 
for two, and the bridegroom (for I am sure it was 
a bridal party) with uplifted glass drinking a bene- 
diction to his bride. 

There were no set speeches that night, as indeed 
there need not be with that company ; such wit and 

* "Distinguished Company. 
" Charles Dickens to preside and James T. Fields to be seated 
opposite. Mrs. Annie Fields, Charles Eliot Norton and Mrs. Norton, 
Prof. James Russell Lowell and Mrs. Lowell, Dr. Oliver Wendell 
Holmes and Mrs. Holmes, Mr. Howard Malcolm Ticknor and Mrs. 
Ticknor, Mr. Aldrich and Mrs. Aldrich, Mr. Schlesinger, and an 
obscure poet named Longfellow (if discoverable) and Miss Long- 
fellow." 



CROWDING MEMORIES 107 

laughter that made even the sparkle of the cham- 
pagne seem dull and lifeless. The host at the head 
of his table was the incarnation of joy on a cruise 
of pleasure. Every fibre of his body was unrestrained 
and alert with good-fellowship, so that even the 
youngest and shyest guest, who had nothing to con- 
tribute to such a company but her youth and appre- 
ciation, forgot to be self-conscious. 

A few weeks after the memorable visit of Mr. 
Dickens, the composite little Dutch picture appeared 
in the "boudoir" bringing with her a tiny silver tray 
on which lay a visiting card, " Mr. Henry W. Long- 
fellow." The lisping voice made haste to say, "I 
said the Master and Mistress was home, I askeded 
him into the dining-room and I told him to set 
down," 

Mr. Longfellow at this time had passed his six- 
tieth birthday. The awful chasm which, without the 
slightest warning, had opened at his feet in the 
tragedy of his wife's death had made him look much 
older than his years could count. Time never as- 
suaged the wound of that bereavement. He spoke or 
wrote of it only in the fewest words. Once in writing 
to Mr. Curtis he said, "I am utterly wretched and 
overwhelmed ; to the eyes of others outwardly calm, 
but inwardly bleeding to death." The spiritual 
beauty of Mr. Longfellow's expression, the dignity 
and gentleness of his manner, his smile of peculiar 



io8 CROWDING MEMORIES 

sweetness, all had great charm, and made him seem 
the ideal poet. 

The distinguished guest was soon placed in the 
easiest chair in the study, his hostess vainly endeav- 
oring to appear at ease, and to hide as much as pos- 
sible her sense of the high honor paid by this visit, 
which to her was much the same as it would be to the 
English subject should the King, without retinue 
or warning, depart from his palace to visit a simple 
gentry of his kingdom. After a half-hour's friendly 
chat of books and men, Mr. Longfellow said: " May 
I tell you how 1 am impressed with the atmosphere 
of home and cheer you have given to this little 
room? Its crimson walls, the flowers, the crowded 
shelves of books, all tell their story of the fortunate, 
the happy day, when a new household found its place 
among the innumerable homes of earth." Then, turn- 
ing to his hostess, he said: "I should so much like 
if you would show me all of this small house. Mr. 
Dickens told me of its charm." With shy pride we 
took our guest from room to room, and when we 
came to our bedroom with its blue chintz hangings 
Mr. Longfellow said that all the bluebirds printed 
on them should know it was a poet's home and sing 
to him their sweetest melodies both day and night. 

When the short tour of the house was over, linger- 
ing a moment at the dining-room door Mr. Long- 
fellow said: "Ah, Mr. Aldrich, it will not always be 







^1 



A^»-^ «\ .^'vfrfljrj'. 



lOivw^*^ V» . VtS^ijL , 



iAoAA/w^'NV . ^.,^^voc^5JU^, 



LONGFELLOW IN HIS STUDY 



CROWDING MEMORIES 109 

the same round table for two. By and by it will 
extend itself, and about it will cluster little faces, 
royal guests, drumming on the table with their 
spoons. And then, as the years go by, one by one they 
will take flight to build nests of their own. The round 
table will again recede until it is set for two and you 
and Mrs. Aldrich will be alone. This is the story of 
life, the pathetic poem of the fireside. Make an idyl of 
it ; I give the idea to you." Mr. Aldrich did not use the 
motif, and Mr. Longfellow himself later wrote the 
poem "The Hanging of the Crane," for which poem 
Mr. Bonner paid him three thousand dollars for the 
right to publish it in his paper. Thus the little visit, 
which Mr. Longfellow in his kindness made, brought 
for him a dual reward — money and fame, and a 
larger asset, the pleasure and matronly pride it gave 
its young recipient. 

This visit was soon followed by an invitation to 
dine at Craigie House. As our carriage stopped at the 
gate our host appeared at the open door, and coming 
down the long walk with courtly grace gave his arm 
to his young guest. The picture of the scene is in- 
delible: the tender grace of the dying day; the lilacs 
just in bloom; the green of the grass; and a poet, 
bareheaded, with whitening hair, standing in the 
twilight. 



CHAPTER XI 

"The Summer comes and the Summer goes; 
Wild-flowers are fringing the dusty lanes, 
The swallows go darting through fragrant rains, 
Then, all of a sudden — it snows. 

"Dear Heart, our lives so happily flow, 
So lightly we heed the flying hours, 
We only know Winter is gone — by the flowers. 
We only know Winter is come — by the snow." 

FOR the first summers the fairyland of the idyllic 
days of the honeymoon of marriage was the 
"Old Town by the Sea," where Mr. Aldrich was bom 
and where his grandfather and mother still lived in 
the "Nutter House," which was then, and is still, 
a fine example of the simple, dignified home of a quiet 
New England town almost a century ago. 

It was in the summer of 1869 that Mr. Aldrich 
wrote the story that was told to him there — told to 
hini by the "Nutter House" itself. The happy days 
of his boyhood spoke to him from every timber of that 
old home. There was not an inch in the house or a 
spot in the garden that did not have its story to tell. 
" It all came to me out of the past, the light and life 
of the Nutter House when I was a boy at River- 
mouth." 

The house stands on a narrow street at the foot of 



CROWDING MEMORIES iii 

which is the Piscataqua River. But the "Nutter 
House" and its surroundings are described so de- 
lightfully in "The Story of a Bad Boy" that the 
next few paragraphs shall be given to the reader by 
Tom Bailey himself: 

" Few ships come to Rivermouth now. Commerce 
drifted into other ports. The phantom fleet sailed ofjt' 
one day and never came back again. The crazy old 
warehouses are empty; and barnacles and eel-grass 
cling to the piles of the crumbling wharves, where the 
sunshine lies lovingly, bringing out the faint spicy 
odor that haunts the place • — the ghost of the old 
dead West India trade. 

"The house abutted directly on the street; the 
granite doorstep was almost flush with the side- 
walk, and the huge old-fashioned brass knocker ex- 
tended itself in a kind of grim appeal to everybody. 
It seemed to possess strange fascinations for all sea- 
faring folk; and when there was a man-of-war in 
port, the rat-tat of that knocker would frequently 
startle the quiet neighborhood long after midnight. 

"Imagine a low-studded structure, with a wide 
hall running through the middle. At your right 
hand, as you enter, stands a tall mahogany clock, 
looking like an Egyptian mummy set up on end. 
On each side of the hall are doors opening into rooms 
wainscoted, with wood carvings about the mantel- 
pieces and cornices. 



112 CROWDING MEMORIES 

"There are neither grates nor stoves in the quaint 
chambers, but splendid open chimney-places, with 
room enough for the corpulent back-log to turn over 
comfortably on the polished andirons. The door on 
the left as one enters is the best room. The walls 
are covered with pictured paper, representing land- 
scapes and sea- views — for example, this enlivening 
figure is repeated all over the room : A group of Eng- 
lish peasants wearing Italian hats are dancing on a 
lawn that abruptly resolves itself into a sea-beach, 
upon which stands a flabby fisherman (nationality 
unknown), quietly hauling in what appears to be 
a small whale, and totally regardless of the dread- 
ful naval combat going on just beyond the end of 
his fishing-rod. On the other side of the ships is the 
mainland again, with the same peasants dancing. 

" It is Sunday morning. I should premise by say- 
ing that the deep gloom which settled over every- 
thing set in like a heavy fog early on Saturday eve- 
ning. 

"Our parlor is by no means thrown open every 
day. It is open this June morning, and is pervaded 
by a strong smell of centre-table. The furniture of 
the room, and the little China ornaments on the 
mantelpiece, have a constrained, unfamiliar look. 
My grandfather sits in a mahogany chair, reading 
a large Bible covered with green baize. Miss Abigail 
occupies one end of the sofa, and has her hands 




HALL AND STAIRWAY IN THE "NUTTER HOUSE" 



CROWDING MEMORIES 113 

crossed stiffly in her lap. I sit in the corner, crushed. 
Robinson Crusoe and Gil Bias are in close confine- 
ment. Baron Trenck, who managed to escape from 
the fortress of Glatz, can't for the life of him get out 
of our sitting-room closet. 

"The door at the right of the hall leads into the 
sitting-room. It was in this room where my grand- 
father sat in his armchair the greater part of the 
evening, reading the Rivermouth 'Barnacle,' the 
local newspaper. There was no gas in those days, 
and the Captain read by the aid of a small block- 
tin lamp which he held in one hand. I observed that 
he had a habit of dropping off into a doze every 
three or four minutes. Two or three times, to my 
vast amusement, he scorched the edges of the news- 
paper with the wick of the lamp ; and at about half- 
past eight o'clock I had the satisfaction — I am 
sorry to confess it was a satisfaction — of seeing 
the Rivermouth 'Barnacle' in flames. 

''My grandfather leisurely extinguished the fire 
with his hands, and Miss Abigail, who sat near a 
low table, knitting by the light of an astral lamp, 
did not even look up. She was quite used to this 
catastrophe, 

"The monotonous 'click click' of Miss Abigail's 
needles made me nervous after a while, and finally 
drove me out of the sitting-room into the kitchen, 
where Kitty caused me to laugh by saying Miss 



114 CROWDING MEMORIES 

Abigail thought that what I needed was * a good dose 
of hot-drops.' 

"Kitty Collins, or Mrs. Catherine, as she pre- 
ferred to be called, was descended in a direct line 
from an extensive family of kings who formerly 
ruled over Ireland. In consequence of various calam- 
ities, among which the failure of the potato crop 
may be mentioned, Miss Kitty Collins, in company 
with several hundred of her countrymen and coun- 
trywomen — also descended from kings — came over 
to America in an emigrant ship, in the year eighteen 
hundred and something. 

** I don't know what freak of fortune caused the 
royal exile to turn up at Rivermouth; but turn up 
she did, a few months after arriving in this country, 
and was hired by my grandmother to do 'general 
housework' for the modest sum of four shillings and 
sixpence a week. In time she grew to be regarded 
less as a servant than as a friend in the home circle, 
sharing its joys and sorrows — a faithful nurse, a 
willing slave, a happy spirit." 

Of the dining-room Master Bailey had little to 
say, excepting the pen picture of Sunday morning 
in the "Nutter House": 

"Sunday morning. ... At seven o'clock my grand- 
father comes smilelessly downstairs. He is dressed 
in black, and looks as if he had lost all his friends 
during the night. Miss Abigail, also in black, looks 



CROWDING MEMORIES 115 

as if she were prepared to bury them, and not indis- 
posed to enjoy the ceremony. Even Kitty Collins 
has caught the contagious gloom, as I perceive 
when she brings in the coffee-urn — a solemn and 
sculpturesque urn at any time, but monumental 
now — and sets it down in front of Miss Abigail. 
Miss Abigail gazes at the urn as if it held the ashes 
of her ancestors, instead of a generous quantity of 
fine old Java coffee." 

In the "Life of Thomas Bailey Aldrlch," writ- 
ing of the small hall bedroom in the "Nutter House," 
his biographer says: 

"Even in those days he was a reader, a little 
dreamer, and moved in a world peopled with the folk 
of the imagination. The passage in 'The Story of 
a Bad Boy' describing his little hall-room in the 
'Nutter House,' the books he found there and the 
use he made of them, is of the first biographic im- 
portance. 

" * I had never before had a chamber all to myself, 
and this one, about twice the size of our stateroom 
on board the Typhoon, was a marvel of neatness 
and comfort. Pretty chintz curtains hung at the 
window, and a patch quilt of more colors than were 
in Joseph's coat covered the little bed. The pattern 
of the wall-paper left nothing to be desired in that 
line. On a gray background were small bunches of 
leaves, unlike any that ever grew in this world; and 



ii6 CROWDING MEMORIES 

on every other bunch perched a yellowblrd, pitted 
with crimson spots, as if it had just recovered from 
a severe attack of the smallpox. That no such bird 
ever existed did not detract from my admiration of 
each one. There were two hundred and sixty-eight 
of these birds in all, not counting those split in two 
where the paper was badly joined. I counted them 
once when 1 was laid up with a fine black eye, and, 
falling asleep, I immediately dreamed that the 
whole flock suddenly took wing and flew out of the 
window. From that time I was never able to regard 
them as merely inanimate objects. 

" * A washstand in the comer, a chest of mahogany 
drawers, a looking-glass in a filigreed frame, and a 
high-backed chair studded with brass nails like a 
coffin, constituted the furniture. Over the head of 
the bed were two oak shelves, holding perhaps a 
dozen books — among which were "Theodore; or, 
The Peruvians"; "Robinson Crusoe"; an odd vol- 
ume of "Tristram Shandy"; Baxter's "Saints' 
Rest," and a fine English edition of the "Arabian 
Nights," with six hundred woodcuts by Harvey. 

" 'Shall I ever forget the hour when I first over- 
hauled these books? I do not allude especially to 
Baxter's "Saints' Rest," which is far from being a 
lively work for the young, but to the "Arabian 
Nights," and particularly "Robinson Crusoe." The 
thrill that ran into my fingers' ends then has not 



CROWDING MEMORIES 117 

run out yet. Many a time did I steal up to this nest 
of a room, and, taking the dog's-eared volume from 
its shelf, glide off into an enchanted realm, where 
there were no lessons to get, and no boys to smash 
my kite. 

" * In a lidless trunk in the garret I subsequently 
unearthed another motley collection of novels and 
romances, embracing the "Adventures of Baron 
Trenck," "Jack Sheppard," "Don Quixote," "Gil 
Bias," and " Charlotte Temple " — all of which I fed 
upon like a bookworm. I never come across a copy 
of any of those works without feeling a certain ten- 
derness for the yellow-haired little rascal who used 
to lean above the magic pages hour after hour, re- 
ligiously believing every word he read, and no more 
doubting the reality of Sinbad the Sailor or the 
Knight of the Sorrowful Countenance than he did 
the existence of his own grandfather.' " 

In the story of the "Nutter House" Mr. Aldrich 
does not speak of the garden ; but he has often told 
me of the inexhaustible territory of pleasure and 
play it was ; at times swarming with Indians in am- 
bush behind every bush and tree; then, presto, 
change ! — it was transformed into an English forest, 
through which rode Robin Hood and his men; again 
the pirates had it — Captain Kidd burying his 
treasure in the moonlight; Jeanne d'Arc proudly 
riding on her white steed with banners flying; and 



ii8 CROWDING MEMORIES 

here, many times, was solemnized the marriage of 

Pocahontas and Captain John Smith. 

"A happy childhood, ringed with fortunate stars! 
What dreams were his in this enchanted sphere, 
What intuitions of high destiny ! 
The honey-bees of Hybla touched his lips 
In that new world garden unawares." 

Of this summer Mr. Greenslet wrote in his bi- 
ography: "The summer of 1868 was spent as usual 
at Portsmouth, and throughout it Aldrich was giving 
all his spare moments to the writing of 'The Story 
of a Bad Boy.' He returned to Pinckney Street 
about the middle of September, and there on the 
evening of the sixteenth wrote the last words of the 
chronicle of Tom Bailey. On the seventeenth oc- 
curred one of the great happinesses of his life. A 
month before he had received from Mr. Howells a 
note, saying, * I have a fine boy ' ; on the eighteenth 
of September Aldrich replied : 

" ' My Dear Howells, — I have TWO fine boys, 

born yesterday morning! Everything seems to be 

well with my wife and with the little fellows, God 

bless the three of them ! and I am exceedingly happy. 

Your friend, 

T. B. Aldrich.'" 



«( ( / 



"Two things there are with Memory will abide — 
Whatever else befall — while life f^ows by: 
That soft cold hand-touch at the altar side; 
The thrill that shook you at your child's first cry." 



CHAPTER XII 

AFTER Mr. Aldrich's marriage several happy 
summers had been passed In Portsmouth before 
his Grandfather Bailey, or "Grandfather Nutter" 
as he was named in "The Story of a Bad Boy," 
died. Never again would the tall figure in black 
satin waistcoat and high satin stock, the kindly face, 
the beneficent smile, be seen in the familiar places. 
The life and cheer of the "Nutter House" had fled. 
For the next few years the summer home was in 
a fishing village, in a long, low house — " Rose Cot- 
tage," where the roses and rose-bugs ran riot — the 
sea and the mermaids the nearest neighbors. There 
was a tiny garden and a small green lawn, where 
almost every afternoon strawberries, and, in fact all 
berries in their season, would bloom and ripen with 
marvellous rapidity. Then if the mermaids were 
sitting on their rocks, or tuning their lyres, they 
would see two lithe jocund sprites going berrying. 
The shouts of joy with which each berry hidden in 
its green leaves was welcomed when found echo in 
my ears. Many were the schemes devised to lure the 
guileless reapers indoors while the boxes of fruit 
were emptied in the thick-growing grass. Ah, happy 
days! Birds singing — youth, happiness, love. 



120 CROWDING MEMORIES 

How well remembered is the hour and day of this 
first summer in "Rose Cottage," wheaMr. Aldrich, 
laden with books and manuscripts, returned from 
the city of his editorial cares, and said, with per- 
plexed face and whimsical manner: "We are, nolens 
volens, to have a visitor, 'O'ermaster it as you may.* 
This morning Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe came to 
the office, and without preamble said, ' I should like 
to make you and Mrs. Aldrich a little visit; the per- 
sonality of your wife strongly attracts me.' " Then 
followed the startling intelligence that the distin- 
guished guest would arrive early the next day. 

For the chatelaine of the humble chateau there 
was little sleep that night. What would befall her in 
the next few hours when Mr. Aldrich was in town, 
and she alone with the distinguished guest — a 
guest who at the tender age of twelve years had 
chosen for her theme, "Can the Immortality of the 
Soul be proved by the Light of Nature?" Unfor- 
tunately, at "Rose Cottage" there were no books 
for research that would treat of such grave subjects, 
and even memory itself that night proved treacher- 
ous, refusing to recall "Questions and Answers," 
hidden in the blue-covered catechism of her girlhood. 
. The next morning Mr. Aldrich was adamant to ^ 
the prayer that he would forego all editorial duties 
for that day, but giving his promise to return from 
the city as early as possible, and to bring with him - 




THE "JOCUND SPRITES' 



CROWDING MEMORIES 121 

a man rich in the lore of theology and kindred mat- 
ters,] he hurried to the train, leaving his laughing 
advice, if there seemed danger of being swept be- 
yond the depths, to call to the rescue the jocund 
sprites, with their trumpets and drums, their rat- 
tling wagons, their squeaking carts — the arma- 
ment with which they so frequently had silenced 
conversation in the small house. 

Mrs. Stowe was among the notable women we 
had met in our first days in Boston. From that time 
she held a large place in our interest, although we 
seldom saw her. The description she had written of 
herself to Mrs. FoUen in London, fifteen years be- 
fore, would apply equally well to her personality the 
first time we saw her. " I am a little bit of a woman, 
somewhat more than forty, about as thin and dry 
as a pinch of snuff; never very much to look at in 
my best days, and looking like a used-up article 
now." The story which had proved such an im- 
portant factor in the abolition of slavery was pub- 
lished in the same year as her letter to Mrs. FoUen. 
In the same letter she wrote of it: "Having been 
poor all my life, and expecting to be poor the rest of 
it, the idea of making money by a book which I 
wrote because I could not help it never occurred to 
me. 

On the day of publication of ' ' Uncle Tom's Cabin ' * 
three thousand copies of the book were sold, and 



122 CROWDING MEMORIES 

within a year, one hundred and twenty editions, or 
over three hundred thousand copies, of the book 
were sold in this country. Eight power presses run- 
ning day and night were barely able to keep pace 
with the demand for it. 

In the life of Mrs. Stowe, written by her son, he 
says: "Almost in a day the poor professor's wife had 
become the most talked-of woman in the world ; her 
influence for good was spreading to its remotest 
corners, and henceforth she was to be a public char- 
acter, whose every movement would be watched with 
interest, and whose every word would be quoted." 
; At dinner the night before the memorable visit 
Mr. Aldrich had suggested that as the next day 
would probably be warm, a claret cup, served with 
its clinking ice, its ruby color, and its bit of mint, 
would be a refreshment for body and soul. And with 
the suggestion the flattering remark that of all the 
accomplishments in the menage of the Mistress of 
the Manor none surpassed her brewing. Then, lift- 
ing his glass, with a gay little nod he hummed the 
words of Sir Harry's toast: 

"And here's to the housewife that's thrifty. 
Let the toast pass; 
Drink to the lass; 
I'll warrant she'll prove an excuse for the glass." 

It was with no joyous heart, however, that after 
Mr. Aldrich's departure the next morning, the Mis- 



CROWDING MEMORIES 123 

tress of the Manor began the brewing of her cup; 
her troubled thought making discord as to how 
much measure of this and that would bring to har- 
mony the ingredients of her ruby mixture. Thought 
refused to concentrate on the work of her hands ; it 
wandered to other matters. "What does a personal- 
ity that attracts consist of ? " "Can the Immortality 
of the Soul be proved by the Light of Nature?" 
Was Mr. Aldrlch half in earnest when he advised 
her before meeting this visitor to familiarize her 
mind with an exhaustive study of all the concord- 
ances of Scripture she could borrow or find in order 
to cope with an Intellect that had, at the tender age 
of twelve, chosen this theme for her composition? 

The morning w^as half over before a carriage 
stopped at the door, and a reluctant hostess went 
forward to greet her distinguished guest. W^hat was 
a personality that attracts? Whatever it was it cer- 
tainly was not an unconscious personality, but a 
very conscious one, that waited at the door. The 
day was excessively warm, the train from the city 
overcrowded, making Mrs, Stov/e look worried and 
frail, like a last rose of summer. With the first look 
at the wilted flower, personality fled, and there was 
but one thought: what can be done for this guest's 
comfort? She was brought into the house, placed in 
the easiest chair, a fan put in her hand, her bonnet 
taken off. With her sigh of relief and gratitude for 



124 CROWDING MEMORIES 

these ministrations came the request for something 
to drink that would quench her inordinate thirst. 
Almost before Mrs. Stowe had finished speaking, to 
her young hostess came the remembrance of the 
ruby cup cooling in the ice chest, and with the re- 
membrance a feeling of deep thankfulness that she 
had something so refreshing to offer. A little tray on 
which was a plate holding a biscuit and a glass 
pitcher filled with the delectable mixture was quickly 
brought. and placed on a stand by Mrs. Stowe's 
chair, and a hostess who had forgotten "person- 
ality" and embarrassment was leaning over it, 
laughingly saying: 

"And let me the canakin clink, clink; 
And let me the canakin clink. 
A soldier's a man; 
O, man's life 's but a span; 
Why, then, let a soldier drink." 

The soldier drank, and very shortly afterwards 
complained of the unsettled character of the room, 
which seemed to the visitor to be stationary at an 
angle of forty-five degrees. And the sea turn — 
everything is in a blue mist — did we often have 
such sudden fogs? She would lie down if the sofa had 
not such a momentum ; to her eye it was misbehav- 
ing as badly as her berth at sea. 

It was with penitent and contrite heart that the 
hapless sinner, whose want of concentration of her 



CROWDING MEMORIES 125 

errant thoughts in the brewing of the cup had 
brought about this dire mischance, assisted her 
guest; and fervent was her prayer that the recum- 
bent position would prove recuperative and restore 
speedily the equilibrium that through her fault had 
gone so far astray. 

In the days of the sixties women still wore hoops 
or reeds in their skirts, and in lying on the sofa Mrs. 
Stowe's skirts, like Hamlet's words, "flew up," re- 
vealing very slender ankles and feet encased in pru- 
nella boots ; the elastic V at the sides no longer elas- 
tic, but worn and loose. The stockings were white, 
and the flowery ribbon of the garter knots was un- 
abashed by the sunlight. 

What was to be done? The hour of Mr. Aldrich's 
return was imminent. The perturbed and anxious 
sinner sat in watchful silence. On a distant chair lay 
a gossamer scarf which would drape the unconscious 
form. But if in the getting of it she wake the sleeper? 
Which was the kindest thing — to wait for " Na- 
ture's sweet restorer" or to drape the scarf and run 
the risk of waking her poor victim? If Mr. Aldrich 
was only coming alone, she could bar the door and 
banish him. But in this long, low house there was 
but one living-room, and what could be done with 
the stranger guest who was coming with him? For 
this reason the venture must be made. With stealthy 
steps the goal was won, and light as a butterfly's 



126 CROWDING MEMORIES 

wing the gossamer scarf slowly descended, only to 
rise again with accelerated motion, for Mrs. Stowe 
at the first touch sat straight upright, and with dim, 
reproachful eyes asked: "Why did you do it? I am 
weak, weary and warm as I am — let me sleep." 
There was given a gentle hint that there was dra- 
pery to be rearranged, but the negative was firm, and 
the answer decisive: "I won't be any properer than 
I have a mind to be. Let me sleep." 

Fortunately, Mr. Aldrich was detained in town 
and did not arrive at "Rose Cottage" until a later 
hour than he had expected. Before he came Mrs. 
Stowe had had a strong cup of coffee, her skirts had 
resumed their normal shape, and she was herself 
again. At dinner the hapless sinner had the poignant 
pain of hearing the unconscious lamb telling the 
guest of the heat of the day and the motion of the 
train producing a strange dizziness which she had 
never experienced before. Until the writing of this 
page never has there been a confession made of this 
episode; in all the intervening years it has been as a 
fountain sealed. 

When the brief visit was over and the adieus being 
made, Mrs. Stowe said at parting: "I am always 
like a spider that is puzzled where to attach his 
threads for a web. You and Mrs. Aldrich unknow- 
ingly gave me a motif for a story." Then turning to 
Mr. Aldrich, she said: "There is so much positive 



CROWDING MEMORIES 127 

character in this little lady that I could not resist 
the desire to put her in a book. But I had come to 
the end of the bridge, and there was need to meet 
my heroine again." Then, with the good-bye kiss to 
her hostess, added, "She is not you, just you, but a 
type of you." 

It was a surprised and disturbed heroine that 
closed the door on the departing guest, and asked of 
the jocund sprites, whose hands she held, if they 
thought it kind to put their mother in a story-book. 
And dear was their answer: "I love you, mamma, 
rny mamma, my dear little mamma!" And beyond 
that she never knew. 

It was in the autumn of this year that Mr. Al- 
drich first met Mr. Clemens, although a year previ- 
ous their epistolary acquaintance began, introduced 
by a very savage letter which Mark Twain had 
written to Mr. Aldrich, not as a comrade and fellow 
worker, but to the unscrupulous and unreliable edi- 
tor of "Every Saturday." Mr. Aldrich had copied 
from another periodical some rhymes credited to 
Mark Twain about a euchre game that was turned 
into poker, and evidently had commented upon 
them unfavorably, as being an imitation of Bret 
Harte's "Heathen Chinee." Mr. Clemens wrote to 
say the lines were not his, and he wished to have 
the misstatement corrected, which Mr. Aldrich, in 
a very complimentary paragraph, immediately did. 



128 CROWDING MEMORIES 

The second letter to Mr. Aldrich begins: 
"Dear Mr. Aldrich, — 

"I hear a good deal about doing things on the 
' spur of the moment ' — I invariably regret things I 
do on the spur of the moment. That disclaimer of 
mine was a case in point. I am ashamed every time 
I think of my bursting out before an unconcerned 
public with that bombastic pow-wow about burning 
publishers' letters and all that sort of imbecility, 
and about my not being an imitator, etc. Who 
would find out that I am a natural fool if I kept al- 
ways cool and never let nature come to the surface? 
Nobody." 

The last letter in this series was from Mr. Aldrich, 
ending in this wise: **When you come to Boston, if 
you do not make your presence manifest to me, I '11 
put an item in 'Every Saturday,' to the effect that 
although you are generally known as * Mark Twain,' 
your favorite nom de plume is ' Barry Gray.' I flatter 
myself that will bring you." 

It was in the early dark of a winter's night a year 
after this belligerent correspondence that Mr. Al- 
drich came home bringing with him a most unusual 
guest, clothed in a coat of sealskin, the fur worn out- 
ward ; a sealskin cap well down over his ears ; the cap 
half revealing and half concealing the mass of red- 
dish hair underneath; the heavy mustache having 
the same red tint. The trousers came well below the 




SAMUEL L. CLEMENS 



CROWDING MEMORIES 129 

coat, and were of a yellowish-brown color; stockings 
of the same tawny hue, which the low black shoe 
emphasized. May and December intermixed, pro- 
ducing strange confusion in one's preconceived 
ideas. Was it the dress for winter, or was it the dress 
for summer? Seemingly it all depended on the range 
of vision. If one looked up, winter; if one looked 
down, summer. But when the wearer spoke it was 
not difhcult for the listener to believe that he was 
not entirely accountable for the strange gear. It was 
but too evident that he had looked upon the cup 
when it was red, for seemingly it had both cheered 
and inebriated, as the gentleman showed marked 
inability to stand perpendicular, but swayed from 
side to side, and had also difhculty with his speech ; 
he did not stammer exactly, but after each word 
he placed a period. His sentences were whimsical, 
and host and guest laughed loudly, with and at each 
other. The hostess happened to be in the hall as Mr. 
Aldrich's key turned in the lock and host and guest 
entered . Obviously something very amusing was being 
said, interrupted for the moment by the words of 
introduction "My wife," and the gay laughter con- 
tinued, dying down for a minute, to start up again ; 
no intimation whatever given as to what name might 
be attached to this strange-looking personage. 

Winter disappeared with the removal of the 
guest's fur coat and cap, and summer, or at least 



I30 CROWDING MEMORIES 

early springtime, emerged in the violet tint of the 
carelessly tied neck-knot, and the light gray of under 
coat and waistcoat; but for the third one in the 
group a cold and repellent frost had steadily set in, 
stiffening and making rigid the face and figure of an 
inhospitable hostess, who cast reproachful glances 
at the blameless householder who had taken the un- 
authorized liberty of bringing home a guest to din- 
ner. At least in this unjust wise the glances were so 
interpreted, on account of an incident of a few eve- 
nings before, when Mr. Aldrich had brought to his 
fireside an unexpected friend — a friend who in dis- 
robing for the night must have been surprised to 
discover many a sundry black-and-blue spot on his 
white flesh, which the sharp boot-heels of his hostess 
had administered, when the host had helped himself 
too generously to a scanty dish of oysters or sweet- 
meats, which would have been ample for two, but 
was short rations for three. The dinner of the few 
days before had produced three surprises — the 
guest's astonishment at the boot-heels; the hostess's 
astonishment at the sudden and penetrating glances 
directed to her by the otherwise well-behaved stran- 
ger; and the host's surprise, when, in the sanctity of 
their bedroom, the Irate wife had demanded the 
reason why her gentle hints had not been acted on; 
and the mutual surprise and horror when it was dis- 
covered they had never been received. 



CROWDING MEMORIES 131 

The cocoon of this new strange visitor being cast 
aside, the little party of three adjourned to the li- 
brary, where Mr. Aldrich vainly sought to dispel 
the frosty atmosphere by the genial warmth of the 
blazing fire; but in spite of his efforts the gay laugh- 
ter waned as the influence of the wet blanket be- 
came more perceptible, as the holder of it sat mute 
and unresponsive to laughter or jest; and cold was 
the negative that answered Mr. Aldrich 's anxious 
inquiries if she had a headache, or was ill. 

When the hands of the clock pointed to the usual 
dinner hour, no maid appeared with the announce- 
ment that dinner was served, nor was there any an- 
swering notice or fellow sympathy to the eye that 
looked to the mistress of the feast, and then back 
to the clock, whose hands slowly moved to quar- 
ter past — half past — quarter of — and then the 
strange guest arose and said he thought he would go. 
The adieus were made and accepted, by one with 
icy formality, which the other member of the fra- 
ternity tried to make atonement for by an exuber- 
ant cordiality as he escorted his guest to the door. 
On his return to the library with unwonted stern- 
ness he asked why the dinner was three quarters of 
an hour late, and why the guest had not been asked 
to stay; his answer was hysterical tears, and in his 
bewilderment he heard: "How could you have 
brought a man in that condition to your home, to 



132 CROWDING MEMORIES 

sit at your table, and to meet your wife? Why, he 
was so intoxicated he could not stand straight; he 
stammered in his speech — " With these words the 
tangled knot was cut. Quickly the answer came: 
"Why, dear, did you not know who he was? What 
you thought wine was but his mannerisms and idio- 
syncrasies, characteristics of himself, and bom with 
Mark Twain." There was silence for the moment, 
and then louder grew the hysterical sobs, muffling 
and choking the voice: "Mark Twain! Was that 
Mark Twain! Oh, go after him, go after him; bring 
him back and tell him, tell him — O, what can you 
tell him ! " But it was not until years afterwards that 
he was told. 



CHAPTER XIII 

LOOKING backward over the halcyon days of 
the next few years are the vague memories of 
the coming of Bret Harte in his victorious journey 
from the Pacific to the Atlantic Coast. His poems and 
stories, especially "The Heathen Chinee," had made 
of him a celebrity so renowned that the newspapers 
heralded his progress from city to city in the manner 
befitting a prince of royal lineage, 

Mr. Harte was to be the guest of Mr. Howells on 
that first visit to Boston; Mr. Howells was then the 
assistant editor of the "Atlantic Monthly," Mr. 
James T. Fields being the editor-in-chief. Mr. How- 
ells's account of this visit is so interesting, and 
throws so much light upon Bret Harte's character, 
that I tell it as he has told it in his "Literary 
Friends and Acquaintance": 

"When the adventurous young editor who had 
proposed being his host for Boston, while Harte was 
still in San Francisco, and had not yet begun his 
princely progress eastward, read of the honors that 
attended his coming from point to point, his courage 
fell, as if he perhaps had committed himself in too 
great an enterprise. Who was he, indeed, that he 
should think of making this dear son of Memory, 
great heir of Fame, his guest, especially when he 



134 CROWDING MEMORIES 

heard that in Chicago Harte failed of attending a 
banquet of honor because the givers of it had not 
sent a carriage to fetch him to it as the alleged use 
was in San Francisco? Whether true or not, and it 
was probably not true in just that form, it must have 
been this rumor which determined his host to drive 
into Boston for him with the handsomest hack which 
the livery of Cambridge afforded, and not trust to 
the horse cars and the express to get him and his 
baggage out, as he would have done with a less 
portentous guest. However it was, he instantly lost 
all fear when they met at the station, and Harte 
pressed forward with his cordial hand-clasp as if he 
was not even a fairy prince, and with that voice and 
laugh which was surely the most winning in the 
world. Before they came in sight of the editor's 
humble roof he had mocked himself to his guest 
at his trepidation, and Harte with burlesque mag- 
nanimity had consented to be for that occasion only 
something less formidable than he had loomed afar. 
He accepted with joy the theory of passing a week 
in the home of virtuous poverty, and the week 
began as delightfully as it went on. Cambridge be- 
gan very promptly to show him those hospitalities 
which he could value, and continued the fable of his 
fairy princellness in the curiosity of those humbler 
admirers who could not hope to be his hosts or fel- 
low guests at dinner or luncheon. 



CROWDING MEMORIES 135 

** It cannot harm him or any one now to own that 
Harte was nearly always late for those luncheons 
and dinners which he was always going out to, and 
it needed the anxieties and energies of both families 
to get him into his clothes and then into the car- 
riage, when a good deal of final buttoning must have 
been done, in order that he might not arrive so very 
late. He was the only one concerned who was quite 
unconcerned; his patience with his delays was in- 
exhaustible; he arrived smiling, serenely jovial, ra- 
diating a bland gaiety from his whole person, and 
ready to ignore any discomfort he might have occa- 
sioned." 

On Mr. Harte's first day in Boston he dined with 
the Saturday Club, where he met among others 
Louis Agassiz, Henry W. Longfellow, James Russell 
Lowell, Oliver Wendell Holmes, Ralph Waldo Emer- 
son, and Richard H. Dana, Jr. 

After a week's stay in Cambridge, Bret Harte 
returned to New York, and a few days afterwards 
accepted the offer of James R. Osgood & Company, 
then publishers of the "Atlantic," to pay him ten 
thousand dollars during the ensuing year for what- 
ever he might write in the twelve months, be it 
much or little. But in despite of the certainty of 
this income, Bret Harte had not been long in the 
East before he began to feel the pressure of money 
difiiculties, from which pressure he, and his father 



136 CROWDING MEMORIES 

before him, was never free; nor would he have been 
with the wealth of the Indies at his command; for 
notwithstanding his Hebrew blood, he was a born 
spendthrift. 

"The fault's not mine, you understand: 
God shaped my palm so I can hold 
But little water in my hand, 
And not much gold." 

On a subsequent visit of Mr. Harte's to Boston, 
I well remember, late on a stormy December night 
as we were covering with ashes the too bright blaze 
of the cheerful logs of the living-room fire, the 
startling sound of the front doorbell, followed by 
the buoyant, confident tone of Bret Harte at the 
foot of the stairs, calling: "Are you home, Aldrich? 
I have come to make a night of it." And then the 
melodious voice as he ascended the stairs two at a 
time chanting, "Polly, put the kettle on, Polly put 
the kettle on, and we'll all have tea." He had been 
to a dinner and reception given in his honor, and 
coming gaily into the room he asked for the loan of 
our spare room for the night, saying that the hotel 
room was dreary, and that he was in a mood to be 
happy and gay. We joyfully loaned him the room 
and the lights — the pajamas and the brushes — 
and in return he loaned us through all the small 
hours, until the coming of the dawn, the aroma of 
his host's choicest cigars. The next morning, still ar- 



CROWDING MEMORIES 137 

rayed in his evening clothes, he went unembarrassed 
and airily hotelwards. It may be that our house was 
for him a palladium that night; for a few evenings 
afterwards with untroubled charm he spoke to a 
great audience in Tremont Temple, while a sheriff 
sat behind a screen and waited. Hurried calls were 
sent to his publisher, who was dining out and difficult 
to find, so that the lecture had to be lengthened 
until the rescuer came, and the cue was given that 
the last word could now be safely spoken; the all- 
seeing eye had disappeared, and the chair behind 
the screen was vacant. 

Another evening is very vivid in my memory, 
when Mr. Harte came to dinner en famille, or, as 
he said a friend said to him in California, "En 
famille, with my family." There was never a more 
delightful guest or fascinating companion than he 
was on this night, when, sitting about the round 
table with the walnuts and the wine, he told in the 
intimate talk of the boy who at seventeen had 
decided after the death of his father to go West 
in search of adventure and fortune. How he had 
landed in San Francisco without profession or trade, 
money or prospects, and the life that had opened to 
him there in his first week. He made to our imagina- 
tion the picture so vivid that we walked with him 
along the city front, seeing the dim lines of ware- 
houses, the unsafe wharves on their rotten piles, 



138 CROWDING MEMORIES 

the two or three ships still standing where a sudden 
storm had beached them a year or two before. The 
warehouses where the trunks and boxes of the early 
forty-niners were stored by the missing and dead 
owners. We went with him through the Spanish 
quarter, and saw the Mexican in his crimson sash and 
velvet jacket; the women in their lace mantillas and 
their rufifled skirts playing their guitars and danc- 
ing the chacuca and other dances of their nation. 
The gambling-saloons and the gaudily dressed and 
painted women who presided over them. The princi- 
pal gambling-houses were in the heart of the city and 
were open every hour of the day and night; the at- 
mosphere hazy with the scent of tobacco smoke and 
redolent of the fumes of brandy. The wild music and 
the jingling of gold and silver were almost the only 
sounds. Almost everybody played, and in fact the 
gambling-houses were as clubs for business and pro- 
fessional men. People staked and lost their last dol- 
lar, Mr. Harte laughingly said, with a calm solemnity 
and a resignation that was almost Christian. Every 
gambling-house, even the poorest on Long Wharf, 
had its music, and in its pause not a sound could be 
heard excepting the low murmur of voices and the 
chinking of the coins which the players shufHed back- 
ward and forward in their hands. 

Mr. Harte said that during the first weeks in the 
new and strange life that had opened up to the boy 



CROWDING MEMORIES 139 

of seventeen, he had tried his luck at gold-finding, 
and shovelled and picked and worked with the rest 
of the comrades that worked at his side. Later he 
discarded the mining tools and was employed as a 
messenger by the Adams Express Company; drift- 
ing from that company into the composing-room of 
the "Golden Era," which at that time was a famous 
paper, and naturally he began to contribute to its 
pages. Mr. Harte said he had written "The Hea- 
then Chinee" at a sitting and thrown it aside. Later, 
for want of a better thing, it was put in print merely 
to fill up a space, and that no surprise could be so 
great as his at the success of the verses when they 
were copied by almost every newspaper in the 
United States. 

Mark Twain was also a fellow worker on the 
"Era," and became known through its columns. 
The "Golden Era" was said to be the cradle and 
the grave of many a high hope of budding genius. 

Boston possessed, in the winter of 1871-72, a lady 
of towering social ambition, who, unhappily for her- 
self, was not of the privileged order, and had never 
been able to force the gates that barred her from the 
reigning aristocracy of that city. But if she was lack- 
ing in grace, she was not in courage, her resourceful 
spirit proving it when it brought to her mind the sug- 
gestion that if this Western Lion could be lured to 
her lair, with what confidence cards of invitation 



140 CROWDING MEMORIES 

could be sent to the doors that had hitherto been 
sealed to her hospitality. Fortune favored her quest, 
and the cards of invitation to meet Mr. Bret Harte 
on a certain evening, brought more acceptances than 
regrets, for the young author had received much 
adulation in his triumphal progress from the Pa- 
cific to the Atlantic, and even the "London News" 
had an editorial beginning, "America has a New 
Star." 

When the eventful night came, and exclusive Bos- 
ton blue blood had greeted with sufficient hauteur 
the hostess who had captured the Lion, the long and 
showy drawing-room was well filled with represent- 
ative men and women, who met perhaps for the 
first time socially at a house the chatelaine of which 
was without the stamp of Vere de Vere — that in- 
signia being the sine qua non of what was called our 
best society. 

Before the evening was half over, Mrs. Julia Ward 
Howe was asked by Mr. Harte if she would not give 
him the privilege of hearing from her lips "The 
Battle Hymn of the Republic." Mrs. Howe had a 
beautiful and highly trained voice, and it was always 
a pleasure to listen to it. After "The Battle Hymn" 
Mrs. Howe sang an Italian song and ended with an 
English ballad, full of pathos. At the finish Mrs. 
Howe slowly rose from the piano, and the eloquent 
silence was broken by her hostess's voice at the 



CROWDING MEMORIES 141 

extreme end of the room saying, "Oh, Mrs. Howe, 
do now sing something comic"! ! ! 

Among the new friends we were frequently meet- 
ing, we numbered Mrs. Howe, and many were the 
pleasant missives sent to our small house. "Ye 
Aldriches come to-night." And sometimes the mis- 
sives began, "Dear little flower." 

Mrs. Howe was not only a poet, but a patriot as 
well. "The Battle Hymn of the Republic" was sung 
during the Civil War as often as "America," or 
"The Star-Spangled Banner." On the happy eve- 
ning when you were bidden to her house you were 
sure of meeting a coterie of charming men and 
women, who sat at her feet with rapt attention while 
she talked of Goethe and Schiller, or of Kant's phi- 
losophy. Then suddenly forgetting the serious things 
of life, her buoyant spirit would overflow with mis- 
chievous merriment, as she challenged Mr. Aldrich 
to a battle of wits by propounding problems of 
arrant nonsense, as confusedly interwoven and tan- 
gled as are similar paragraphs locked in the pages of 
"Science and Health." 

From this evening there were few nights for Mr. 
Harte without engagements; his charming person- 
ality making him a most welcome guest. Mr. Harte 
was at this time in the height of his fame, everybody 
quoting "The Heathen Chinee," and "Truthful 
James." Harvard, among the many honors bestowed 



142 CROWDING MEMORIES 

on him, Invited him to deliver the annual Phi Beta 
Kappa Poem. Mr. Harte accepted the invitation, 
but apparently did not recognize the dignity of the 
occasion. He made his appearance in gaudy raiment 
and wearing green gloves. His poem was as inap- 
propriate as his dress. Clothes and the man were 
equally disappointing to Harvard. The poet fully 
realized the situation, and fled in dismay. 



CHAPTER XIV 

LOOKING backward through the mist and dim- 
ness of the receding past, how happy are the 
memories of our first visit to Hartford ! I hear with 
startling clearness voices that have long been silent; 
through the darkling mist forms take shape; joyous 
shadows return again to earth, move, speak, and 
have their being. 

The invitation of Mr. and Mrs. Clemens for this 
visit included Mr. Howells and Mr. Osgood. The little 
party of four who met that bright day at the station 
were fortunate in possessing the best life gives — 
happiness, health, freedom from care. As our train 
moved slowly into the station at Springfield, we saw 
on the platform Mark Twain and Charles Dudley 
Warner, waiting to join their guests, and go with 
them the rest of the short journey. Mark Twain was 
then in his golden dawn; he had friends in crowds; 
he had married the woman he loved, and fame had 
become a tangible asset. With the same slow and 
lengthened utterance that had made the old man at 
his lecture ask, "Be them your natural tones of elo- 
quence?" — with his waving, undulating motion as 
he came towards us he said, "Well, I reckon I am pro- 
digiously glad to see you all. I got up this morning 



144 CROWDING MEMORIES 

and put on a clean shirt, and feel powerful fine. Old 
Warner there did n't do it, and is darned sorry — 
said it was a lot of fuss to get himself constructed 
properly just to show off, and that that bit of a red 
silk handkerchief on the starboard side of the pocket 
of his gray coat would make up for it; and I allow 
it has done it." 

On the arrival at Hartford we were met by the 
same carriage and coachman that Mr. Clemens, after 
he had entered the enchanted land, described to Mr. 
Redpath, who was urging lecture engagements: '*! 
guess I am out of the field permanently. Have got a 
lovely wife, a lovely house, a lovely carriage and a 
coachman whose style and dignity are simply awe- 
inspiring — nothing less." Patrick McAleer was 
accompanied by "George," who was both butler 
and guardian spirit of the house. George had been 
the body servant of an army general, and was of the 
best style of the Southern negro of that day. With 
much formality we were presented to him by Mr. 
Clemens, who said: "George came one day to wash 
windows ; he will stay for his lifetime. His morals are 
defective; he is a gambler — will bet on anything. I 
have trained him so that now he is a proficient liar 
— you should see Mrs. Clemens's joy and pride when 
she hears him lying to the newspaper correspondent, 
or the visitor at the front door." 

We dined the evening of our arrival at the War- 



CROWDING MEMORIES 145 

ners', in a room so vivid in memory that the scent of 
the flowers still lingers. The conservatory was on the 
same level as the dining-room and opened into it, 
and was as a midsummer out-of-door garden, with 
its tangle of vines and flowers. The plants were set 
in the ground, the vines climbed up and overhung 
the roof, and the fountain, with lilies at the base, 
made fairy music. 

Never again can there be such talk as scintillated 
about the table that night. Howells, Clemens, Al- 
drich, and Warner made a quartette that was in- 
comparable. To my remembrance comes the descrip- 
tion which years afterwards Mr. Clemens gave Mr. 
Stevenson of Mr. Aldrich and which only inade- 
quately conveys the brilliancy of his talk when he 
was in the vein. Mr. Clemens said: "Mr. Aldrich 
has never had his peer for prompt and pithy and 
witty and humorous sayings. None has equalled 
him, certainly none has surpassed him in the felic- 
ity of phrasing with which he clothes those children 
of his fancy. Aldrich is always brilliant ; he can't help 
it; he is a fire opal set round with rose diamonds; 
when he is not speaking, you know that his dainty 
fancies are twinkling and glimmering around in him ; 
when he speaks the diamonds flash. Yes, he is al- 
ways brilliant; he will be brilliant in hell, you will 
see." Stevenson, smiling a chuckly smile, said, "I 
hope not." "Well, you will, and he will dim even 



146 CROWDING MEMORIES 

those ruddy fires and look like a transfigured 
Adonis backed against a pink sunset." 

When the guests returned to the Clemens house- 
hold, it was not until the small hours of the night 
that it was voted to adjourn and go to bed. But 
long before that, Mr. Howells, with eyes suffused 
with tears, had pleaded with Mrs. Aldrich to use her 
influence to make Mr. Aldrich abstain from any 
more provocative speech. Mr. Howells said he could 
not bear it longer, he was ill with laughter, and that 
for friendship's sake Aldrich must be muffled and 
checked. Let the others talk, but beg him to keep 
still. 

The next morning, as we were dressing and talk- 
ing of the pleasant plans of the day, there was a loud 
and rather authoritative knock at the bedroom 
door, and Mr. Clemens's voice was heard, saying, 
"Aldrich, come out, I want to speak to you." The 
other occupant of the room wrapped her kimono 
round her more closely, and crept to the door, for 
evidently something of serious import was happening, 
or about to happen. The words overheard were most 
disquieting. Twain's voice had its usual calmness and 
slowness of speech, but was lacking in the kindly, 
mellow quality of its accustomed tone, as he said: 
"In Heaven's name, Aldrich, what are you doing? 
Are you emulating the kangaroos, with hob-nails 
in your shoes, or trying the jumping-frog business? 



CROWDING MEMORIES 147 

Our bedroom is directly under yours, and poor 
'Livy and her headache — do try to move more 
quietly, though 'Livy would rather suffer than have 
you give up your game on her account." Then the 
sound of receding footsteps. 

Our consternation was as great as our surprise 
at the reprimand, for we had been unconscious of 
walking heavily, or of making unnecessary noise. 
The bedroom was luxurious in its appointments, the 
rugs soft on the floor; we could only surmise that the 
floor boards had some peculiar acoustic quality that 
emphasized sound. On tiptoe we finished our toilets, 
and spoke only in whispers, much disturbed in mind 
that we had troubled our hostess, and hoped she 
knew that we would not willingly have added to her 
headache even the weight of a hummingbird's wing. 
When the toilets were finished, slowly and softly 
we went down the stairs and into the breakfast 
room, where, behind the large silver coffee urn, sat 
Mrs. Clemens. With sorrowful solicitude we asked 
if her headache was better, and begged forgiveness 
for adding to her pain. To our amazement she an- 
swered, "I have no headache." In perplexed con- 
fusion we apologized for the noise we inadvert- 
ently made. ''Noise!" Mrs. Clemens replied. '*We 
have not heard a sound. If you had shouted we 
should not have known it, for our rooms are in 
another wing of the house." At the other end of 



148 CROWDING MEMORIES 

the table Mark Twain sat, looking as guileless as a 
combination of cherubim and seraphim — never a 
word, excepting with lengthened drawl, more slow 
than usual, "Oh, do come to your breakfast, Aldrich, 
and don't talk all day." 

It was a joyous group that came together at the 
table that morning, and loud was the laughter, and 
rapid the talk, excepting Mrs. Clemens, who sat 
rather quiet, and with an expression of face as if she 
were waiting. Suddenly Mr. Clemens brought the 
laughter to a pause with his rap on the table, and 
then, with resonant and deep-toned voice, speak- 
ing even more slowly than usual, he asked God's 
blessing and help for the day. The words were ap- 
parently sincere, and spoken with reverent spirit, 
but we who listened were struck with the same sur- 
prised wonder as was the companion of his rougher 
days, Joe Goodman, who came East to visit them, 
and was dumbfounded to see Mark Twain ask a 
blessing and join in family worship. Nothing could 
have so clearly shown his adoration of Mrs. Clemens 
as this. He worshipped her as little less than a saint, 
and would have "hid her needle in his heart to save 
her little finger from a scratch." 

Mrs. Clemens, in these early days of their married 
life, was a woman of deep religious feeling, and Mr. 
Clemens at this time had no particular doctrines of 
his own, so that it did not require much persuasion 



CROWDING MEMORIES 149 

on Mrs, Clemens's part for her husband to yield to 
her wishes. Later they both drifted very far from 
creeds and sects. 

In 1867, on the steamship Quaker City, Mr. 
Clemens had seen in young Mr. Charles Langdon's 
room a miniature of his sister, Olivia. At the first 
sight of the pictured face it possessed for Mr. 
Clemens the magnetism and influence that the 
lovely original was to have for him throughout his 
life. It drew and held him with insistent force, and 
often he went to young Langdon's room to again 
look upon the face that had grown so dear. Mr. 
Clemens said to me, that "from the day of his first 
sight of that delicate face to this, he could truly 
say, she had never been out of his mind." 

It was on this memorable transatlantic cruise 
that one of those "Marchaunt Adventurers" was to 
create a book, the fame of which would extend all 
over the world. 

Henry Ward Beecher, Lieutenant-General Sher- 
man, and General Banks were expected to be of 
the party, but for some reason did not materialize. 
This was Mr. Clemens's first year of literary recog- 
nition on the Atlantic Coast. He had published in 
the "Golden Era" "The Jumping Frog," and fol- 
lowed it by several notable papers written in his 
special vein. He had heard, while waiting in the 
shipping office of the Quaker City, a newspaper man 



I50 CROWDING MEMORIES 

ask what notables were going on the cruise, and had 
heard the answer of the clerk, given with evident 
pride, Lieutenant-General Sherman, Henry Ward 
Beecher, and Mark Twain. 

Mr. Clemens was at this time thirty-one or two 
years old ; a sparely built man of medium height ; 
a finely shaped, classical head, covered with thick, 
shaggy, red-colored hair; a mustache of the same 
tawny hue; eyes which glimmered, keen and twin- 
kling, under overhanging, bushy eyebrows, each hair 
of which ruffled itself, taking part with unwarrant- 
able intrusion in Mr. Clemens's moods, were they 
grave or gay. Once, in my remembrance, so belliger- 
ent and fierce was their aspect, that his listener, 
who had the temerity to differ with the views he 
was expressing, begged the privilege of brushing 
the eyebrows down, that she might have courage 
to continue with the argument. 

The years which Mr. Clemens had passed on the 
Mississippi, and the rough life of California, lacked 
greatly the refining influence of a different civili- 
zation. With that sharp schooling he had become too 
well acquainted with all the coarser types of human 
nature. He was bom with a marvellous gift of 
phrase, and his one-time friends could not resist the 
temptation of developing his profanity to an in- 
comparable perfection. He said to a friend who re- 
monstrated with him on the habit, "In certain try- 



CROWDING MEMORIES 151 

ing circumstances, desperate circumstances, urgent 
circumstances, profanity furnishes a relief denied 
even to prayer." 

After the return from the Atlantic cruise, Mr. 
Clemens was invited by young Mr. Langdon to dine 
with his people at the St. Nicholas Hotel, in New 
York. The invitation was eagerly accepted, for it 
meant for him the realization of his dream. The 
delicate face of the miniature in young Langdon 's 
cabin had from the first day of seeing it been ever 
present in his thought. 

Olivia Langdon was twenty-two years old at the 
time of the first meeting. A slender, girlish figure, 
with the little touch of appeal in her smile which 
long confinement to a sick-room brings. She was un- 
doubtedly to Mr. Clemens a type of woman hitherto 
unknown. Mr. Anson Burlingame, a year before this 
meeting, had given Mr. Clemens the needed and 
convincing advice, to seek companionship among 
men of superior intellect and character; to refine 
himself ; his work ; always to climb ; never to affiliate 
with inferiors. From this advice the knowledge was 
bom that life meant something higher than he had 
yet known; but in despite of Mr. Clemens's desire 
for better things, he was still a man untrained and 
unpolished; the customs of the frontier still held 
him fast. 

Miss Langdon 's nature, in its gentleness, culture, 



152 CROWDING MEMORIES 

spirituality, was the antithesis of his. Later, when 
this novel and unusual Westerner wooed and won 
this white and fragile flower (for so she always 
seemed), the men of her world said, "We did not 
dare to speak of love to her, she seemed as if she so 
lightly touched earth, belonging to another sphere." 
At sixteen years of age. Miss Langdon had fallen 
on the ice and seriously injured her spine. For the 
next two years she was confined to her bed, a pathetic 
invalid, unable to sit even when supported ; unable 
to lie in any position upon her back. Mr. Langdon 
felt his wealth was as sand to be scattered to the 
four winds, if by its use relief could be brought. 
Great physicians and surgeons were summoned to 
her bedside; but she failed steadily, until even hope 
was dead. Among the many mechanical devices for 
her relief in position was a pulley attached to the 
ceiling and to her bed, raising her so slowly, and 
almost imperceptibly, that it was an hour before 
she could be brought to a half-reclining position; 
even with that gentle movement she became un- 
conscious. The physician dared not attempt the 
venture again. After two years of helpless suffering, 
one day a half-sheet of paper was blown in at an 
open door, and fluttered to Mrs. Langdon's feet. It 
was a poorly printed advertisement of marvellous 
restoration to health by the laying on of hands ; the 
blind seeing; the lame walking; the deaf hearing. 



CROWDING MEMORIES 153 

Mrs. Langdon read the soiled bit of paper with in- 
credulous mind; but notwithstanding her unbelief, 
the mother love grasped at the straw. Taking the 
sheet of paper to Mr. Langdon, she asked him to 
read it, and as he read she said: "The laying on of 
hands was a miracle in our Saviour's day; pray God 
to grant a miracle in this. Physicians, surgeons, edu- 
cation, science — all have failed us, all have proved 
futile; hope itself is vanished." 

An appointment was made with Dr. Newton for 
the next day. He came into the darkened room, and 
as he entered said, "Have light; throw up the cur- 
tains; open wide the windows." Approaching the 
bed, he bent over the pale face and the slight figure 
lying there, murmuring a short prayer; then in low 
voice he said: "Daughter, be of good comfort, ac- 
cording to your faith be it unto you. I put my arms 
about you and bid you sit up." Earnest was the 
dissent of the watchers at the bedside. They told 
the danger, the pain, the long unconsciousness that 
had followed the experiment ; the strict orders of the 
physicians that it must never be repeated. The 
low voice answered, "My arms are still about you; 
sit up." Slowly, and with vague eyes the slender 
form obeyed. The girl who had lain helpless on that 
bed for two years sat erect and still. A few moments 
of unbroken silence passed, and then in the sound- 
less room the voice was heard again. "My arm is 



154 CROWDING MEMORIES 

still about you; He down." Naturally and quietly 
the body relaxed, the head sank to the white pil- 
lows. For a moment the strange Healer stood mo- 
tionless, then bending over the bed said, "Sleep well 
to-night; to-morrow I will come." And was gone 
before any there were sufficiently aroused from their 
astonishment to intercept him. 

The next day the Healer again came to the bed- 
side, and said to the sick girl, "Arise, put your foot 
to the floor and stand." The following day, at the 
farthest end of the room, he placed a chair, asking 
the invalid to go to it. When she was seated, the 
Healer said: "Health and strength will now abide 
with you. Sickness and pain are banished." Leaving 
the girl still sitting in the chair, the Healer went 
slowly from the room. Mr. Langdon, marvelling 
greatly, followed, saying: "What can I offer you 
that will induce you to stay and watch over my 
sick child?" The Healer, slowly turning, said: *"0 
thou of little faith, wherefore didst thou doubt?' I 
want neither gold nor silver. My sick and suffering 
call me, and I must go to do the work that waits 
for me to do." 

After the meeting in New York of the Langdon 
family, an invitation was given to Mr. Clemens to 
visit the household at any time he found it con- 
venient. Many of Mr. Clemens's lecture engage- 
ments were in the State of New York, so that often 



CROWDING MEMORIES 155 

he could avail himself of the privilege. There had 
been a gay and happy week spent in the Langdon 
home, and in that week Mr. Clemens more fully 
realized how irreclaimably all his hopes and dreams 
— his ambition and desire — were centred on the 
girl whose pictured face had so strongly drawn and 
held him. On the morning of the last day of the 
visit, Mr. Clemens said to young Langdon: "My 
week is up, and I must go. I ought to go. I am in 
love with your sister." There was a pause for a 
moment; then young Langdon, much distressed, 
said: "Don't wait. There is a train in half an hour. 
I will get you to it." But Mr. Clemens refused the 
offer, and young Langdon had to be content with 
the promise that Mr. Clemens would be prudent, 
watchful, and wary, and would go that night. But 
when night came, and the adieus were said, there 
was an accident to the wagon as it started from the 
door — young Langdon and his guest came down 
with force on the paved street. Neither of the pas- 
sengers was hurt, but an inspiration was bom to 
Mr. Clemens — the opportunity to prolong his 
visit ; and it was two weeks later before he "allowed " 
that he was quite strong enough to resume his lec- 
tures. When the lecturer set out again on his trav- 
els, there was a provisional engagement to Miss 
Langdon. 
When her father asked Mr. Clemens for the names 



156 CROWDING MEMORIES 

of some of his San Francisco friends, that he might 
write to them for credentials, he gave among others 
the name of Mr. Joe Goodman, who was owner and 
editor-in-chief of "The Enterprise," one of the most 
remarkable frontier papers ever published. In giving 
the name of Mr. Goodman, Mr. Clemens added that 
"he had lied for Goodman a hundred times, and 
Goodman would lie for him if necessary, so his 
testimony would be of no value." 

At the time of this joyous visit in Hartford, Olivia 
Langdon had been married four years. She was no 
longer the inexperienced, retiring girl that had loved 
the shadow of life and found her happiness in its 
shade. The visit to Europe, the association with the 
brilliant men and women she met there, had greatly 
enlarged her vision, awakening her fully to the re- 
sponsibility she had assumed. She took with quiet 
and simple dignity her place, and guided with won- 
derful tact a nature so untrained and undisciplined, 
so filled with wild and savage impulses, that a less 
angelic and courageous soul would often have shrunk 
from the self-appointed task. But always to help and 
sustain her was the knowledge of his idolizing love 
for her. He soon learned to realize her rare literary 
perception, and always, as far as she was able, she 
encouraged him to give only his best to the world. 
In an early letter to Mr. Twichell, Mr. Clemens in 
a characteristic way speaks of this new influence. 



'?^ 



■A 



CROWDING MEMORIES 157 

"Originally I quit [smoking] on 'Livy's account. 
Not that I believe that there was the faintest reason 
in the matter, but just as I would deprive myself of 
sugar in my coffee If she wished it, or quit wearing 
socks if she thought them immoral." 

Out of those far-off days are two indelible pic- 
tures in my memories of the last morning and eve- 
ning of our happy visit: the assembling of the guests 
at the breakfast table, and while we waited the 
entrance of our hostess, Mr. Clemens, with sober 
face and his inimitable drawl, telling his night ex- 
perience, with the orders for the next day. The eve- 
ning before, Mrs. Clemens had been speaking of her 
consternation In finding she had misspelled a word 
in a formal note, and said it had always been a great 
mortification to her that she could not spell; that 
the sound of a word left her helpless as to the spell- 
ing of it, and that, for Mr. Clemens's sake, she 
should not be allowed to write even the simplest 
note unless he looked it over. While she was speak- 
ing there glimmered and twinkled in Mr. Clemens's 
eye a laughing imp that boded mischief. Mr. 
Clemens said, "I had just fallen into * the first sweet 
sleep of dawn,' when this murmur reached my ear: 
'Mark, do tell me how to spell sardines.' I replied, 
"Livy, for God's sake, don't let them think down 
in the city that you are destitute of general in- 
formation in regard to spelling. How did you spell 



158 CROWDING MEMORIES 

sardines?' And she told me. Then I got up and 
opened the window and picked up her poor little 
scrap of paper, which she had left on the ledge for 
the market-boy to take in the morning, on which 
she had written her wish for extra milk, and a small 
box of sardines. I brought the bit of paper to the 
bedside and said, 'Here, Love, is your pen and ink. 
Just put an " h " at the end of your sardines, then we 
can both lie down in peace to sleep, and in the 
morning when the market-man reads your paper, 
he will know you know how to spell the fish, al- 
though the "h" is always silent.' And God forever 
bless her! she wrote it. But if she ever discovers 
that in that spelling I was wrong, why, the china 
and I will fly." 

Mr. Howells, in his sketch of Mr. Clemens, says: 
"It was part of his joke to pretend a violence in that 
gentlest creature which the more amusingly realized 
the situation to their friends." 

The last evening of that visit in Hartford is as 
clear and vivid as if the men and women that clus- 
tered about the blazing fire in the long red-curtained 
room that night had not now passed into shadowy 
phantoms, but lived still sentient with life and hap- 
piness. 

It was voted at dinner that the company would 
not disband until the genial morn appeared, and 
that there should be at midnight a wassail brewed. 



CROWDING MEMORIES 159 

The rosy apples roasted at the open fire, the wine and 
sugar added, and the ale — but at this point Mrs. 
Clemens said, "Youth, we have no ale." There was 
a rapid exit by Mr. Clemens, who reappeared in a 
moment in his historic sealskin coat and cap, but 
still wearing his low-cut evening shoes. He said he 
wanted a walk, and was going to the village for the 
ale and should shortly return with the ingredient. 
Deaf, absolutely deaf, to Mrs. Clemens's earnest 
voice, that he should at least wear overshoes that 
snowy night, he disappeared. In an incredibly short 
time he reappeared, excited and hilarious, with 
his rapid walk in the frosty air — very wet shoes, 
and no cap. To Mrs. Clemens's inquiry, "Youth, 
what have you done with your cap?" there was a 
hurried search in all his pockets, a blank and sur- 
prised look on his face, as he said: "Why, I am 
afraid I have thrown it away. I remember being very 
warm and taking it off, carrying it in my hand, and 
now I do remember, at such a turn in the road, my 
hand feeling a strain of position, opening it and 
throwing away in the darkness something in my 
hand that caused the sensation." Then, In real 
anxiety, "'Livy, do you think it could have been 
my cap?" 

Mr. Clemens was sent for George, with Mrs. 
Clemens's instruction that George should carefully 
retrace Mr. Clemens's footsteps in the quest for the 



i6o CROWDING MEMORIES 

mislaid cap, and also to see that Mr. Clemens put on 
dry shoes. When the culprit returned, the wet low- 
shoes had been exchanged for a pair of white cow- 
skin slippers, with the hair outside, and clothed in 
them, with most sober and smileless face, he twisted 
his angular body into all the strange contortions 
known to the dancing darkies of the South. In this 
wise the last day of the joyous, jubilant visit came to 
the close. Untroubled by the flight of time I still can 
hear a soft and gentle tone, "Youth, O Youth!" for 
so she always called him. 



CHAPTER XV 

IN the first years of Mr. Aldrich's marriage, many 
happy hours were passed in his "Castle in Spain " 
with European guide-books and itineraries much in 
evidence, but not until the autumn of 1874 did the 
plans take definite shape. 

"One dearest sight I have not seen, 
It almost seems a wrong; 
A dream I had when life was new. 
Alas, our dreams! they come not true: 
I thought to see fair Carcassonne — 
That lovely city — Carcassonne!" 

The ocean voyage and the journey in Europe in 
the seventies was a serious adventure, bringing to 
the traveller something of the same distinction as 
that which enshrines the Turkish pilgrim who makes 
the pilgrimage to Mecca, and by so doing earns the 
right to have a certain form of turban cut upon his 
tomb. 

In a drizzling rain-storm on the afternoon of the 

24th of March, 1875, we went on board the Cunard 

steamer Abyssinia. 

"All for adventure in the great New Regions, 
All for Eldorado and to sail the world around." 

The hearts of the Adventurers were heavy on that 

sombre day on which they were outward bound, 



i62 CROWDING MEMORIES 

for the memory of two little faces and the pressure 
of warm Hps had its insistent pain. The letter of fare- 
well which the jocund sprites indited and sent to the 
steamer did not serve to lessen the heartache. ^ 



■''^^^^"^'T-^^i^ -^ .^ you. 



^<^^ Xy^ -^Xz^ 



t^ 



^ 



•^-^^^c^^oieg 



Cottg ouj- At i» ocVocK 

The Abyssinia was one of the largest of the Royal 
Mail steamships, and although she was but one 
twelfth of the size of the present Olympic she 
seemed a Leviathan to our unaccustomed eyes. A 
small group of friends had come aboard to wish us . 
God-speed and bon voyage; of that group none are 
more distinct in memory than Mr. Bayard Taylor, 



CROWDING MEMORIES 163 

who had sent us a box of **HeidsIeck," pronouncing 
it the best cure for mal de mer, and insisting that it 
must be rescued from the steward's care and placed 
where it would be close at hand. Very clear is the 
picture of Mr. Taylor, standing in the little cabin 
(which was much too small for his big body) and en- 
gineering with the skill of a general that precious 
package to a supposedly safe haven under the berth, 
where it remained unopened, but not unthought of, 
during its erratic excursions with the steamer trunks 
and bags, backwards and forwards, the length and 
breadth of our cabin through the terrible days and 
hours of that "Ocean Sea." 

At the sound of a gong, and the loud call through 
the ship, "All for the shore," Mr. Taylor hurried 
back to the cabin with this parting Injunction to the 
venturesome mariner he found there: "Before the 
ship makes a revolution, go into your berth and stay 
there for twenty-four hours. By taking a recumbent 
position the system adapts itself to the motion of 
the sea, and you will probably escape the disagree- 
able effect of an uneven keel." 

Mr. Taylor's reputation as a traveller was great ; 
there could be no hesitation in accepting the advice ; 
so although it was but two o'clock in the day, the 
straight and cofHn-like berth held its unwilling occu- 
pant, and when, soon afterwards, Mr. Aldrich hur- 
ried below, saying, "We have started; come up and 



.r..| 



ckowniNC MiiMokii'-S 



sec (licuccdiii)^ shoti'S," \\v loimd l(>iu liih^yrs, asliip- 
sli.iju' CI I (ill, i\i\{\ c\viy{\\'\\n\ vc:\{\y loi- I lie si(\i>(* Mrs. 
S(*>\vr luul loK'lold. " I )()ir( lr;i\i' so miicli .is (lu* un- 
locking of a l:i"niiU ((» lu- dont" .illn s.iiliiir,. In lliflrw 
pit'cions (ncnitiils when (lie jiliip sl.mds slill, IxIdk^ 
she \vci>;Iis .inclior, srl yoni' lionst-, lli.il is (o s.in' yonr 
st.ilcMnoin. .i,s ninch in okKm" as il > on wcic I'.oini', (o 
In- Ii.niiM'd; pl.icc <'\(M \ilnnr. in {\\r mos( coiiNciiicnl 
position (o |)(' sti. rd williont Ironhic .i( .1 moiiu-nl's 
iiotifr; lor lie stnr in Ii.\ll an honi .iKri sailinj;. ai\ in- 
linilc desperation will s(M/t' yon in which lh(> n.iss. 
hopptM'wiii he a hnrdrn. IT anything is in >(Mii 1 1 iink, 
il iiiir.hl almost as well l»r in tiie s«m, lor any pioh- 
aI>iiit>"ol > t>ni" i4(>t t iny, toil." 

The walls of this litlK< cabin in which we were" 
iinn\nn>d were .stained a sickiMiini; Inn- ol laded 
nnislard \cllow, wilh wa\>', /ijyaj; li^e^; ol li)dit(M* 
shad«' iiilciidcd lo ici>iesent the natnial r.iain ol the 
wood. Hnilt in the coiner ol tlu> room was ;i hi ackel 
on which reslitl a ho\ conlaininy; a small oil lamp en- 
cnsed in frosttMl v^lass. and y^i\iiu> ii^ the twocahins it 
was fiiipposed to illiimiiiale a tlim, u-liiMoiis lir.ht ; a 
wash-stand hrld a ewt-r and howl, det-oialcd wilh a 
i;(M>metric pattern (»r dinii>' hrown, and \\a?; il h>r 
econom\',s sak*- that all the china (»l the ship was 
idciil i«al wilh the ewer,'> .ind how Is ol I he ca him' Two 
poi I holes added lo I he r.ciui al idoom, I he w alei dash- 
iiu< avMiii;;! them and datkeiiinr the hllle lirlil lA 



CROWDING MEMORIES 165 

day. But these ills were as nothing against the in- 
describable scent that took possession of the olfac- 
tory nerves and penetrated every fibre of wood in 
the pristine steamboats. Towels and napkins, cups 
and saucers, plates and curtains, all were inoculated 
with an odor so odious "that all the perfumes of 
Arabia will [could] not sweeten." 

Mr. Aldrich had looked forward eagerly to the 
days on shipboard. He had spent many hours on his 
uncle's yacht and had been a fair-weather sailor; 
keen was his disappointment that the chair by his 
side on deck for the first twenty-four hours would be 
vacant ; frequent were the visits and stirring the talcs 
brought to the cofhn-like berth in those first hours. 
The captain, the passengers, the smoking-room and 
the deck, the enormous size of the ship, and all the 
details of the environment; but when the voyager 
strayed into the dining-hall his imagination was 
made captive by the splendors of the confectionery 
art, the castles and turrets, the sweetmeats and 
cakes; a "bill of fare" had been secured and two 
earnest plotters conspired as to what viands should 
descend that evening to the small stateroom. But 
before the call for dinner was sounded, the occupant 
of the berth had rescinded her order for the "cakes 
and ale," substituting a request for tea and toast, 
and had also urged the stewardess to interview the 
ship's doctor, and beg the privilege of having the dim 



i66 CROWDING MEMORIES 

light in the corner continue, a glow-worm through the 
night, for the ship had begun to rock from side to 
side with a dizzy, continuous motion that was not 
at all reassuring. 

Long before the sumptuous repast in the dining- 
saloon was half finished, the tea and toast had been 
imperatively waved away; abject misery had set in; 
the only palliative would be Mr. Aldrich's presence, 
for had he not assured the sufferer that he was never 
sick at sea, and should she be so unfortunate as to be 
ill, his days and nights would be devoted to her 
service? After what seemed months of misery, a 
phantom bearing an outward semblance to Mr. 
Aldrich entered the room. The face had grown sharp 
and thin and deathlike in its pallor; the voice that 
uttered the words, " I have been so ill," was weak and 
languid; and then, "If I can live to climb into that 
upper berth — God pity us both and pity us all." 
With this, the heroic effort was made, and boots, 
overcoat, gloves, and hat vanished from sight, and 
only the creaking and groaning of the boards over 
her head told the sufferer that the other Adventurer 
still lived. 

For eleven days and nights the agony did not 
abate. Once in the night a child's voice rang out in 
the silence, "Oh, Mother, please won't you keep 
the boat still for just five minutes ! " I am sure that all 
who listened voiced that prayer; but the sea was 



CROWDING MEMORIES 167 

obdurate; it had nearly solved the problem of per- 
petual motion. 

In these awful days the blithe and joyous spirit 
of Mr. Aldrich suffered a temporary eclipse, a sea 
change into something new and strange. His policy of 
life became like lago's: " Demand me nothing: From 
this time forth I never will speak word!" One sen- 
tence did for all his needs: "Don't let that steward 
speak to me. I want to be let alone. It is hellish!" 
And so the days and hours passed until at last we 
came into St. George's Channel, where the sea was 
beautifully smooth, and we had visions of green 
fields. Captain Hains sent that evening a peremptory 
order that the two seats at his table must no longer 
be vacant. The effort was made, and two wan spec- 
tres appeared at the entrance of the dinlng-saloon. 
I have a dim remembrance of a way being made for 
us through a crowd of people sitting on a red- 
cushioned bench that was built against the side of 
the ship the entire length of the saloon, the closed 
ports at regular distances above it. The cushioned 
bench served for a lounglng-place through the day 
when not occupied as seats at the dining-table. The 
other side of the table had the ordinary chairs turn- 
ing on pivots ; much more desirable were these chairs 
than the bench, where one must take the perilous 
journey over the red cushions, behind the backs of 
the persons seated thereon, to arrive at the allotted 



i68 CROWDING MEMORIES 

place. Sometimes the fellow passengers were con- 
siderate and moved ; sometimes they sat very tight, 
so that the traverser had to step over a spine or two 
before sliding down into the waiting place. 

There was much laughter and animated talk at the 
Captain's table that night, Mr. Aldrich having re- 
covered his spirits. I remember an inimitable, funny, 
whimsically fantastic, speech of his, against the sea, 
and the very evident disapproval of the English 
clergyman who sat erect and rigid opposite, and of 
his finally saying, with much solemnity, "Mr. Al- 
drich, God made the sea, the sea is His, He made it." 
''Yes," said Mr. Aldrich, "but He did not like it very 
well, you will remember, when He was on it, for He 
got out and walked." 

A few hours later the Abyssinia's engines ceased 
to throb, — the voyage was over. Coming towards 
us was the little steam tender, the Otter, which the 
steward pronounced "the Hotter," and said it would 
soon take us "hoff." A short run up the Mersey 
River, and then adieu to ship and sea for half a year. 
There was an enjoyable supper at the North-West- 
ern Hotel, in Liverpool, and at midnight we took 
the train to Chester, the city of which Mr. Haw- 
thorne said, " I felt at last as if I had had a glimpse 
of Old England. I must go again and again to Ches- 
ter, for I suppose there is not a more curious place in 
the world." 



CROWDING MEMORIES 169 

" It seems almost an Irish bull to say that one can 
be in London only once for the first time. In other 
places you may renew first impressions. A city on 
the Continent always remains a foreign city to you, 
no matter how often you visit it ; but that first time 
in London is an experience which can never be made 
to repeat itself." 

Mr. Aldrich has told so delightfully of those first 
days that I copy from his printed page: 

**In London there is a kind of hotel of which we 
have no counterpart in the United States. This 
hotel is usually located in some semi-aristocratic side 
street, and wears no badge of its servitude beyond 
a large, well-kept brass door-plate, bearing the 
legend 'Jones's Hotel' or 'Brown's Hotel,' as the 
case may be ; but be it Brown or Jones, he has been 
dead at least fifty years, and the establishment is 
conducted by Robinson. There Is no coffee-room or 
public dining-room, or even office, in this hotel ; your 
meals are served in your apartments; the furniture is 
solid and comfortable, the attendance admirable, 
the cuisine unexceptionable, and the bill abominable. 
But for ease, quietness, and a sort of 181 2 odor of 
respectability, this hotel has nothing to compare with 
it in the wide world. It is here, above all, that you 
will be brought in contact with Smith. 

"It was on our arrival in London, one April after- 
noon, that the door of what looked like a private 



170 CROWDING MEMORIES 

mansion, in Dover Street, was thrown open to us by 
a boy broken out all over with buttons. Behind this 
boy stood Smith. I call him simply Smith for two 
reasons: in the first place, because it is convenient 
to do so, and in the second place, because that is what 
he called himself. I wish it were as facile a matter to 
explain how this seemingly unobtrusive person in- 
stantly took possession of us, bullied us with his use- 
fulness, and knocked us down with his urbanity. 
From the moment he stepped forward to relieve us 
of our hand-luggage, we were his — and remained 
his until that other moment, some weeks later, when 
he handed us our parcels again, and stood statu- 
esque on the doorstep, with one finger lifted to his 
forehead in decorous salute, as we drove away. 

"Smith is a man of about forty, but so unassum- 
ing that I do not think he would assume to be so old 
or so young as that. He is always in evening dress, 
and wears white cotton gloves, which set your teeth 
on edge, during dinner service. He is a person whose 
gravity of deportment is such as to lend seriousness 
to the coal-scuttle when he replenishes the parlor 
fire. Smith's respect for you, at least its outward 
manifestation, is accompanied by a deep, unexpressed 
respect for himself. He not only knows his own place, 
but he knows yours, and holds you to it. He can 
wrap up more pitying disapprobation in a scarcely 
perceptible curl of his nether lip than another man 



CROWDING MEMORIES 171 

could express in a torrent of words. I have gone about 
London a whole forenoon with one of Smith's thin 
smiles clinging like a blister to my consciousness. 

"Our purpose in London was to see the sights, to 
visit all those historic buildings and monuments and 
galleries which were wrested from us by the war of 
1776. We were struck, and then began to be appalled, 
by the accuracy, minuteness, and comprehensive- 
ness of Smith's knowledge of London. It was ency- 
clopaedic. He was a vitalized time-table of railroads 
and coaches and steamboats, a walking, breathing 
directory to all the shops, parks, churches, mu- 
seums, and theatres of the bewildering Babylon. He 
had, stamped on his brain, a map of all the tangled 
omnibus routes, he knew the best seats in every place 
of amusement, the exact moment the performance 
began in each, and could put his finger without 
hesitating a second on the very virtuoso's collection 
you wanted to examine. Before we discovered his 
almost wicked amplitude of information, we used 
to consult him touching intended pilgrimages, but 
shortly gave it up, finding that our provincial plans 
generally fell cold upon him. He was almost amused, 
one day, at our desire to ascertain the whereabouts 
of that insignificant house in Cheapside — it is 
No. 17, if I remember — in which Keats wrote his 
sonnet on Chapman's Homer. Our New World curios- 
ity as to certain localities which possess no interest 



172 CROWDING MEMORIES 

whatever to the Londoner must often have struck 
Smith as puerile. His protest or his disapproval — I 
do not know how to name it — was always so eva- 
nescent and shadowy that he cannot be said to have 
expressed it; it was something in his manner, and 
not in his words — something as vague as a fleeting 
breath on a window-glass; but it dampened us. 
f "The earliest part of our acquaintanceship was 
fraught with mutual perplexities. It was the longest 
time before we discovered that ay ill meant Hay 
Hill Street, Smith making a single mouthful of 
it, thus — ayill. One morning he staggered us by 
asking if we would like 'a hapricot freeze' for 
dessert. We assented, and would have assented if he 
had proposed iced hippopotamus ; but the nature of 
the dish was a mystery to us, and perhaps never, 
\ since the world took shape out of chaos, was there a 

simple mould of apricot jelly looked forward to in 
such poignant suspense." 



\ 

\ 



CHAPTER XVI 

SOON after our arrival at Brown's, Smith found 
active use for his highly polished tray. Mr. 
Aldrich had a number of old and new friends living 
in London, and many were the notes, letters, and 
cards that found a temporary resting-place on its 
bright surface. Among the many notes that were 
laid there one foggy morning was one which brought 
to its recipients a throb of nervous excitement that 
the yellowing paper still retains. 

"Dear Mrs. Aldrich: 

" I was greatly disappointed in not finding you at 
home when I called yesterday. Will you, and Mr. 
Aldrich, give us the pleasure of your company at 
dinner, on Sunday next, at eight o'clock? I hope you 
have no other engagement for that evening. If you 
are free, and can come to us, we would like to ask 
Mr. Browning, Mr. Huxley, Mr. Hughes, and a few 
other friends to meet you. With eager anticipation 
of soon meeting, believe me, 
"Sincerely 

"Phcebe Garnant Smalley" 

An affirmative answer to the note was at once 
dispatched, and during the busy hours of the week 



174 CROWDING MEMORIES 

many a tremulous thought was given to the ex- 
pectant meeting. When the eventful evening came, 
Smith was sharply catechized as to the exact time 
it would take a hansom to traverse the distance that 
lay between Brown's and the Smalleys' residence. 
There had been serious calculations as to which 
dress would be more becoming to the wearer — 
black satin, relieved with light blue, or white bro- 
cade, the two being the extent of evening gowns 
provided for the journey. After the merits of the 
two had been unduly weighed, the odds were in 
favor of the white. 
/ Mr. George Washburn Smalley, since his choice 
of occupation as a newspaper correspondent, had 
revolutionized the work in his special line, and had 
become one of the world's leading men, and at this 
time was an international character, a confidant of 
diplomats and rulers. Mr. Smalley had made his 
reputation in our Civil War when his reports were 
often the first to convey to Washington the news of 
operations in the field; but it was not entirely as a 
newspaper correspondent that Mr. Smalley gained 
his reputation — he was a critic in art, music, and 
the drama, he had the entree of the highest circles 
of the social life of England, was the confidant of 
Gladstone and the intimate of many prominent 
men on the Continent. It was said in London, if one 
wished to find the American Embassy, it would 



CROWDING MEMORIES 175 

be found at Mr. Smalley's house in Chester Square. 

A clock in the distance was striking eight, as Mr. 
Aldrich, with lighted taper, was endeavoring to de- 
cipher under which of the two bells at the right and 
left of the door would be inscribed, "Visitors"; his 
imagination had conjured up with appalling horror 
what the result might be if he should ring the one 
under which "Servants" was inscribed. 

When the "Visitors" bell was found, and rung, 
there was a long wait, and then suddenly a most 
impressive vision greeted our waiting eyes : a figure 
tall and imposing, red velvet waistcoat, flutter of 
lace, powdered wig, white silk stockings, and dia- 
mond buckles on his black shoes. With calm and 
lordly manner he allowed his eye to glance over the 
cowed and humble subjects who waited his invita- 
tion to enter — perhaps he had overheard the muf- 
fled whisper breathed into Mr. Aldrich's ear, " Is it, 
oh, is it, the King!!" 

A deft and pretty maid with practised art took 
wraps and scarfs, and then the lordly personage 
waved us towards the stairs. At the landing another 
royal personage, clothed in equally regal splendor, 
waved us forward, announcing in stentorian tones: 
"Mr. and Mrs. Aldrich." It was a large square 
room, or so it seemed; at the end was an open grate 
lighted by one piece of cannel coal which burnt with 
a flickering flame; in front of this flame stood our 



176 CROWDING MEMORIES 

host and hostess, two lads In black Eton jackets and 
white collars (a new costume to our eyes) ; evidently 
some misdemeanor had been committed, and the 
case was under severe examination. The startled 
expression of Mr. and Mrs. Smalley when our names 
were called, and the sudden disappearance of the 
culprits, whose elimination from the scene was much 
more marvellous than the vanishing of the dis- 
appearing lady we had seen and wondered at in 
"England's Home of Mystery," at a maskelyne en- 
tertainment the night before. An inexpressible some- 
thing in the atmosphere made us conscious that in 
some way we had made a misstep, a social error. In 
our ignorance of London convention we had arrived 
too soon (why had we not asked Smith?) — not 
knowing that the hour given for dinner meant the 
hour of starting, and not the hour for arriving. As 
Mr. and Mrs. Smalley moved quickly towards us, 
one glance showed how true had been Mr. Aldrich's 
description of the charming personality. The same 
lithe, slender figure, the dark hair and eyes, the 
white skin, the black satin gown emphasizing its 
beauty. Her only ornaments were some red and 
yellow tulips worn at the breast, and which swayed 
and trembled at her breath, as a lover would. With 
frank and winning smile she spoke the words of 
welcome, and as Mr. Aldrich turned to Mr. Smalley, 
with caressing touch of hand she said, "I am so 



CROWDING MEMORIES 177 

glad you wore white." The words in themselves were 
simple, but what mysterious and unexplained mean- 
ing did they have to the one who spoke them? There 
was time for a few moments' pleasant talk with 
host and hostess before the quiet was broken in 
upon by the stentorian voice at the door, announc- 
ing Lord and Lady , The Right Honorable 

Mrs. , Mr. and Mrs. , the names following 

hard upon each other, as the bearers made their 
formal entrance into the drawing-room. 

The rapid arrival of the guests gave an uninter- 
rupted moment to ask Mr. Aldrich what could be 
the unintelligible meaning of the words, "I am so 
glad you wore white." And also to say, "How lovely 
she is. How can you bear it?" There was a quick 
little pressure of the hand that lay near him, as he 
answered, ''By grinding my teeth, and thinking of 
the twins." For the moment all conversation was 

suspended by the call of Lady , and the breezy 

entrance of this lady of quality (one of the ladies- 
in-waiting of the Queen) . She wore a bright peacock- 
blue velvet dress. Her entrance was met by a 
chorus of voices, all with intonation of great sur- 
prise, "Why, Lady 1" She made a little rush 

for shelter towards her hostess, whose hand she 
grasped and held as she said : " I have a dreadful 
cold, and this gown was the only one I possess that 
was not very decollete, and I could not have come, 



178 CROWDING MEMORIES 

anyway, if it had not been an American house." 
Then the hostess of the American house hghtly 
touched her cheek, as she said: "Your dress is of no 
consequence, dear, it is you, yourself, we want. We 
all thank you for coming." 

The next moment a voice at my ear said, "Mr. 
Browning begs the privilege of a few words with 
Mrs. Aldrich before we go to dinner." What para- 
lyzing, unnerving words. Mr. Browning had been 
the God of my girlish idolatry. Did I not know every 
word of his "Men and Women," and his "Dra- 
matis Personae," by heart? Had not these immortal 
books come a-wooing with my lover, and had we 
not weighed and pondered over their pages, seeking 
to pluck out the heart of the mystery — and thought 
we had, at least to our own satisfaction, if not to 
those to whom we endeavored to expound our inter- 
pretation? And had he asked to speak to me! I felt 
I should "fall at his feet, and adore." 

It must have been a death-like face that turned 
at the sound of his voice. But with the first glance 
the knees, that had involuntarily bent, stiffened, 
and my idol fell shattered to the floor. Rising from 
its place stood a man of medium height, rather 
robust, full beard, and the perfect air of savoir-faire 
that comes only to the man of society, the man of 
the world. Nothing in his appearance, excepting 
the white hair, proclaimed the poet. He was fault- 





^ ^^CUU. A/^/t J>V^ C^ 




CROWDING MEMORIES 179 

lessly dressed; the white waistcoat, the galloon on 
his trousers, all were of the dernier cri. The diamond 
studs at his breast sparkled and twinkled with mis- 
chievous irony, seeming to say: "Ah, simple one, 
where is your lost Leader now? 'Just for a handful 
of silver he left us, just for a ribbon to stick in his 
coat.' " But more disquieting even than the diamond 
studs was a crush hat, which Mr. Browning carried 
under his arm, and sat upon through the dinner. 
The words I had longed to say — all the things I 
had ached to say — vanished ; tears of disappoint- 
ment were in very slight ambush at the pretty 
nothings, the subtle flatteries of the poet's talk. 
Mr. Henry James has said of Mr. Browning: "It 
was not easy to meet him without some resort to 
the supposition that he had mastered the secret of 
dividing the personal consciousness into a pair of 
independent compartments. The man of the world 
walked abroad, showed himself, talked, and did his 
duty. The man of 'Dramatic Lyrics,* of 'Men and 
Women,' of 'The Ring and the Book,' of 'A Blot on 
the 'Scutcheon,* of 'Pippa Passes' — this inscru- 
table personage sat at home and knew, as well he 
might, in what quarters of that sphere to look for 
suitable company." 

The royal custodian of the door announced an- 
other name, and a vision in white, with swaying, 
undulating motion, came into view. The white robes 



i8o CROWDING MEMORIES 

enclosed a lady "neither fair nor young," but her 

diamonds flashed and burned with irradiate light. 

The lady wore at the waist a long girdle of these 

precious gems, to which was attached a slender 

ivory fan. Gently swinging the open fan as she 

passed Mr. Browning, he moved towards her, and 

with low obeisance said, "How lovely! Je vous en fats 

mon compliment y Slowly and softly as the murmur 

of the summer wind came her floating answer, ' ' Yes, 

I always mourn in white." 

" Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly, 
I have many curious things to show you when you are there." 

The fly could bear it no longer, and seeing her host 
near, made bold to ask, "Please tell me why the 
men and women here to-night speak so often of the 
clothes they wear?" Mr. Smalley kindly explained 
to his guest, who was so ignorant of the etiquette of 
polite society, that the Court was in mourning (why 
had not Smith told us?), and to the interrogation 
of the fly, as to what would have happened if by 
chance its dress had been blue or yellow, there was 
no answer other than this, " I see by Mrs. Smalley's 
eye she is waiting for me to lead the way to dinner " ; 
and as we were (or thought we were) the guests of 
honor, the simple fly made ready to take the ex- 
pected arm, but in place of it there was a slight bow 
and smile, as the arm was offered to the peacock- 
blue velvet dress. The next moment a tall, slender 



CROWDING MEMORIES i8i 

man, with refined, intellectual face, said, "Mrs. 
Aldrich, I am to have the pleasure of taking you in 
to dinner." And so halfway down a long lane of 
guests we descended the "winding stair." When we 
had found our places at the table, my escort, taking 
his place card, said, "Pray let this be my intro- 
duction." The name written on the card v/as, "Mr. 
Irving." "Hamlet" was being played at that time, 
and Mr. Booth had asked us to see and note well 
Mr. Irving's conception of the character, and how it 
differed from his own. 

Mr. Irving was a charming comrade, and the hour 
was one of unalloyed enjoyment, with the exception 
of one antipathy — a man who sat diagonally op- 
posite, and would talk to some other man or woman 
at the furthermost end of the long table. The man 
talked well, and all the table listened, excepting 
those who joined in the discussion — arguing, dis- 
puting, laughing. In the middle of a long monologue, 
the original speaker having the floor, a low voice at 
my side said, " Do you take violent dislikes to per- 
sons you do not know?" Then a pause. "I think 
you do." To that question, the only answer that 
could be made were the immortal lines : 

"I do not like thee, Dr. Fell." 
The low voice continued: "Perhaps you do not 
know the aliases of Dr. Fell. It is Whistler. You 
can always recognize him by the white feather — 



Ib2 



CROWDING MEMORIES 



the little tuft of white in his black hair — the white 
plume of which Mr. Whistler is very proud." 

Of the enchanting hour with Mr. Irving, aside 
from its gaiety and charm, I have slight memory, 
with one exception ; but so definite and strong is that 
memory that a mushroom is the magic wand that 
robs "Sir Henry " of his later glories, and brings him 
back, a living presence, young and vibrant with 
dreams, aspirations, ambitions for his much-loved 
Art. 

The menu that night was carefully chosen. One of 
the delectable dishes was mushrooms, cooked in some 
peculiar manner — each separate mushroom stood 
proudly aloof in its own separate bit of toast. Mr. 
Irving played and toyed with his, until I declared 
he was a sybarite coquetting with his pleasure, 
and finely suggested the vegetable was much better 
warm than cold. Then Mr. Irving, with half-melan- 
choly voice, said: "I cannot eat it. I am an arrant 
coward. In other things of life I dare do all that may 
become a man. Liking mushrooms better than any 
other food, I can master and force my will to put 
the tempter into my mouth; then a panic forcibly 
takes possession of me, and I cannot swallow it. 
Having been placed in this embarrassing predica- 
ment many times, I no longer play with fate." 

After dinner, when the men returned from the 
"walnuts and wine," Mrs. Smalley pointed to an 




JAMES McNeill whistler 



CROWDING MEMORIES 183 

empty chair near by, saying, " Mr. Whistler, I know 
you want to talk with Mrs. Aldrich." If Mr. Whistler 
did, it must have been subconscious, for outwardly 
he gave no sign of that desire. Indifferently he 
advanced, and after a cursory glance, said, "Mrs. 
Aldrich, won't you come over to the bay window 
where we will be more away from the world, and can 
talk? " The talk became at once a monologue, with 
Mr. Whistler and the women who desired his ac- 
quaintance the subject-matter of his discourse. There 
was one story that still lives in memory. A beauti- 
ful lady, who in meeting Mr. Whistler always said, 
"Ah, Mr. Whistler, won't you come and see me?" 
And then after frequent meetings the phraseology 
changed to " Mr. Whistler, why won't you come and 
see me?" 

On a certain Sunday Mr. Whistler was bidden to 
a tea given by a dear friend who lived at a certain 
number on a certain road. It was a lovely day, and 
for some unknown reason Mr. Whistler had an hour 
or two disengaged and thought he would utilize it 
by having a cup of tea with his dear friend and her 
dear friends. Strange to say, although his friend who 
gave the tea was his dear friend, he had never been to 
her house. On his arrival at the certain number and 
the certain street, he was shown by the lackey in 
waiting to the unoccupied drawing-room where there 
was no visible sign of tea or guests. Soon he heard 



i84 CROWDING MEMORIES 

the frou-frou of descending skirts, and saw the lady 
of the entreaties advancing towards him with out- 
stretched hands! She said, "Oh, Mr. Whistler, how 
good of you, how kind of you to come!" Turning to 
his listener, Mr. Whistler said, " Mrs. Aldrich, I did 
not have the heart to tell her that she was indebted 
for the call to my mistake in the number of a house." 
It is uncertain if the narrative finished here, or if 
there was a sequel, as at the moment Mr. Aldrich 
brought up Mr. Hughes, giving me the pleasure of 
seeing and talking with "Tom Brown of Rugby." 

At the appointed hour. Smith sent a "four- 
wheeler" for us, and with its arrival the memorable 
evening came to its close ; but in the privacy of our 
own apartment, when the world was shut out, and 
our world shut in, Mr. Aldrich was closely ques- 
tioned — if he was sure, quite, quite sure. 



CHAPTER XVII 

WITH unwearied interest day after day we 
sought all parts of the great city — the dream 
city of our youth. Mr. Henry James, in speaking of 
London to Mr. Aldrich, said, " It is the heart of the 
world, and I prefer to be the least whit in its whirl, 
than to live and own a territory in any other place." 
We had gone up and down the Thames on the ordi- 
nary river boats, with the incommensurate crowd 
of people, "who scarcely allow for standing room 
nor so much as a breath of unappropriated air." 
We had passed the Tower with its turrets and battle- 
ments, caught a glimpse of the arched entrance of 
the "Traitors' Gate," through which so many un- 
willing souls had passed on the way to heaven. 
Through the gray gloom of the English sky had 
seen that mighty bubble of Saint Paul's, rising out of 
the mass of innumerable roofs and steeples. Then 
" Whitef riars " of unsavory fame, the one-time 
sanctuary and refuge of profligates and sinners. Ad- 
joining Whitefriars we had seen the Temple Gar- 
dens, where the partisans of the Houses of York and 
Lancaster chose the red and the white rose and sent 

"... between the red rose and the white 
A thousand souls to death and deadly night." 



i86 CROWDING MEMORIES 

No roses are blossoming now In the Gardens, but It 
is still rich in shrubbery and chrysanthemums, the 
Temple's special flower. 

"At the temple one day, Sherlock taking a boat, 
The waterman asked him, 'Which way will you float?' 
'Which way?' says the Doctor; 'Why fool, with the stream!' 
To Saint Paul's or to Lambeth was all one to him." 

And so like this Bishop of London we floated with 
the stream until we made our moorage at Richmond, 
and our haven at "The Star and Garter." This de- 
lightfully situated hotel overlooked the Thames, 
and had an almost unsurpassed view of the river. 

We dined that night in state; every table in the 
large dining-room has its party of pleasure. The 
laughter and the champagne, the sparkling ruby 
burgundy that glowed with the silver and glass, the 
gay dresses of the women, the soft light of the candles 
make a picture that lives still warm In memory. The 
dinner to our little party seemed most lavish In ex- 
penditure. It was our first experience of a table d'hote, 
and as dish after dish, cover after cover was pre- 
sented, gaily we enjoyed It all, until suddenly a 
gloom settled on the table, as Mr. Aldrich, with 
anxious expression, said, "I have only two pounds 
In my pocket, and I fear this dinner is much exceed- 
ing that amount"; and then asked of the other 
guest the amount of his exchequer. Unhappily the 
guest's treasury proved a bagatelle, a trifle of shil- 



CROWDING MEMORIES 187 

lings and sixpences, absolutely inadequate for any 
material help towards this dinner of potentates and 
princes. With this condition of affairs what was to 
be done? Would any explanation satisfy the reigning 
monarch, this mattre dliotel, for our lack of shekels, 
he who so faithfully had hovered about our table 
with unremittent attention to our comfort, asking at 
each fresh course, " Est-ce que Monsieur et Madame 
sont bien servis?" " D6sirent-ils autre chose?" With 
proper pride for our country (for were we not Amer- 
icans) condescendingly we had bowed to the ques- 
tion and answered, ''Tout bien, merci!" And must 
we fall from this high estate ! 

The ruby color of the burgundy faded, the jewelled 
twinkle of the champagne lost its glitter to our eyes, 
as we discussed the ways and means of the embar- 
rassing situation. The suggestion of the guest that 
Mr. and Mrs. Aldrich would stay at the hotel for the 
night, while he would be the Mercury to bring the 
ducats and relief in the morning, met with scant 
favor. The decision was ultimately made that the 
situation should be explained, and that watches, 
brooches, rings could, if necessary, be left as security, 
although it was doubtful if their value would equal 
the cost of the royal repast of "The Star and Garter." 
Unanimously it was agreed, to "Let Care, the beg- 
gar, wait outside the gate," and with this agreement 
the twinkle again brightened in the champagne, and 



i88 CROWDING MEMORIES 

the color returned to the ruby wine, and the soft 
voice of the mattre d' hotel still asked, "Monsieur et 
Madame sont bien servis?" 

As a gay party of "Lords and Ladies" entered the 
room, the mattre d'hotel, followed by several of his 
pages, hurried to a round table, where a large silver 
epergne filled with rare fruit and flowers had been 
the cynosure of neighboring eyes. The merry party 
were soon seated, the attendant had bowed lowly, 
the iced wines in their silver coolers were being 
placed, when, to the great surprise of one of the 
insolvent debtors, Mr. Aldrich, rising hastily, ap- 
proached with outstretched hands and enthusiastic 
manner these merrymakers, and greeted with genial 
cordiality the apparent giver of the feast. The pro- 
cedure was so at variance with Mr. Aldrich's usual 
modesty and reluctance to intrude, that the one 
who knew him best sat in amazed silence. There were 
introductions and a few moments of friendly chat, 
and then Mr. Aldrich returned to the two, who with 
excited curiosity waited his coming. "Our mauvais 
quart d'heure is over," he said; "we are saved." The 
involuntary perspective resuscitator was that ad- 
venturous journalist, George Augustus Sala, the 
special correspondent of the London newspapers — 
the cosmopolitan, equally at home in all parts of the 
civilized world. Mr. Sala came to our country at the 
beginning of the Civil War. The London "Daily 



CROWDING MEMORIES 189 

Telegraph" had offered him a thousand pounds for 
a six months' tour, in the course of which he was to 
write two letters a week for the "Daily Telegraph." 
Mr. Aldrich's acquaintance with Mr. Sala was 
slight. He had dined with him at Mr. Lorimer Gra- 
ham's, and also at Delmonico's, when Mr. Sala 
was the guest of Mr. Manton Marble, the edi- 
tor of the New York "World," and Mr. William 
Henry Hurlburt, the brilhant "leader writer" of 
that paper. 

At this meeting at "The Star and Garter" all 
confidence was on the part of Mr. Sala. Mr. Aldrich 
was as dumb to his monetary ajffairs, his financial em- 
barrassment, as if he were the Egyptian Sphinx, but 
he had now cast an anchor to the windward should 
his frail bark drift too near to coral reefs. Mr. Sala 
said he was in London incog., as it were; that from 
the time Doiia Isabella had abdicated in favor of her 
son, Don Alfonso, he had been in Spain as special 
correspondent for the "Illustrated London News," 
and that he had left his post for a couple of days 
only, and was returning to Spain that night. After 
this meeting with Mr. Sala, where Mr. Aldrich had 
made his first (and his last) appearance as a poli- 
tic person, the little dinner went gaily onward until 
the last dish was served, and the coffee and cigars 
brought, and with them the small note with its dis- 
turbing hieroglyphics, laid face downward by Mr. 



190 CROWDING MEMORIES 

Aldrlch's plate. Not until the maitre d' hotel vanished 
was the paper turned ; it read : 

The Star & Garter Hotel 
Richmond, Surrey 
Dinners £14 
Wine 15 

Carried forward £1 4 15 Total £1.19 

All the days in London were a new revelation, a 
fresh delight. We strolled through the thronged 
streets without any definite object but the inter- 
est and glow of the old names — Ludgate Hill, 
the Strand, Fleet Street, Temple Bar, Cheap- 
side. The roar of the city, the bustling spectacle 
of human life, had for us such fascination and at- 
traction that we felt as Hawthorne did about leav- 
ing England, "that it seems a cold and shivering 
thing to go anywhere else," but our destination was 
Rome, and summer would outspeed us unless we 
hastened. 

The short stay at Chester had increased our de- 
sire to visit other cathedral towns. The date of de- 
parture was set, and the plan made, when en route 
for Paris, to stop for the night at Canterbury. When 
the day of exile cam.e, "Smith with smileless face 
handed us our parcels again, and stood statuesque 
on the doorstep with one finger lifted to his fore- 
head in decorous salute," as he gave the order, "Vic- 
toria Station." Our desire was great to see the cathe- 



CROWDING MEMORIES 191 

dral with the almost unequalled windows of the thir- 
teenth century, and the crypts, which were said to 
be the finest in England. 

It was at Canterbury that we made out first ac- 
quaintance with the English provincial inn, so im- 
maculate as seen from the outside, with the window- 
boxes of gay flowers and the shimmer of polished 
brass ; but when the wayfarer had crossed the thresh- 
old and inhaled the scent, the stuffy scent, of carpets 
and of drapery that has hung unwashed and un- 
disturbed for possible centuries, one wonders why 
anything even so remotely suggestive of water was 
chosen for the name of this Inn — ** The Fountains." 
The major-domo, who acts as master of the house, 
seemed, like Pooh Bah of "Mikado" fame, to be 
all men in one : head waiter, business manager, boots, 
and chambermaid. This composite official is always 
clothed in much-worn and shiny evening dress, 
marked with stains and spots of past ages. He holds 
in his hands his wand of office, a towel, which is 
neither unblemished nor pure. Its use is various; 
to wipe the knives and forks, the plates and glasses, 
as he hands them to you, or to dust the chairs or your 
boots. 

The multitudinous personage ushered us into a 
large bedroom on the second floor, filled with beau- 
tiful old mahogany chests of drawers, wardrobes, 
tables, chairs. After our first bird's-eye view of these 



192 CROWDING MEMORIES 

splendors, our vision concentrated itself on the won- 
derfully carved high post bedstead, with its canopy, 
quilt, and curtains of cardinal red wool. The three 
steps that led up to its downy billows were also a 
new wonder to our eyes. The floor of the room was cov- 
ered with a thick carpet of undistinguishable color, 
of unsymmetrical design. Through the years that it 
had lain there undisturbed so many different liquids 
and solids had been allowed to flow over it, taking no 
definite form, that it was now impossible to tell if 
the involved pattern was the result of weave or the 
careless hand of man, so artfully had time blended 
them together — "and smelt so!" 

Our first walk in this ancient city was to the chem- 
ist, to procure all the disinfectants known to modern 
science, and with them we added one more design to 
the floor covering, which had more evidence for than 
against the belief that it was probably made by the 
Protestant exiles from Flanders and France, when in 
1 561 Queen Elizabeth permitted them to set up their 
looms in the crypt of this cathedral. 

It was not until the small hours of the night that 
Morpheus enticed us to his arms. All the early hours 
were given to the difficult matter of covering the 
inner surface of the red wool curtains that draped 
the carven couch with towels, pocket handkerchiefs, 
bureau scarfs, and every white washable thing that 
came within our reach, in order that the dust of cen- 



CROWDING MEMORIES 193 

turles should not stifle us before the morning dawned. 

The next day, unrefreshed from our perilous slum- 
ber, we took the train for Dover, had our first sight 
of the chalk hills, and our first practical knowledge, 
gained by experience, of the misbehaved and most 
mischievous Channel. 

All things come to an end, and although the pas- 
sage had been less than two hours, time had multi- 
plied itself in passing. At last the heavy throb of the 
engine ceased, and we were in Calais, and for the first 
time heard French (but not our French) spoken all 
about us. However, our French did well enough to 
procure us "deux demi-tasses et deux petits verres 
de cognac," and also we were able to say when we 
saw it in danger, "Ayez soin de mon carton k 
chapeaux!" 

A delightful car-ride through the beautiful coun- 
try, and then Paris, and the Hotel Meurice on the rue 
de Rivoli, where a perfect dinner and charming suite 
of rooms in the entresol looking on the Tuileries 
Gardens awaited our coming. Mr. Aldrich so aptly 
describes our environment in one of his papers 
"From Ponkapog to Pesth" that I copy it: 

"One raw April night, after a stormy passage from 
Dover to Calais and a cheerless railroad ride thence 
to Paris, when the wanderers arrived at the rue de 
Rivoli they found such exquisite preparation for 
their coming as seemed to have been made by well- 



194 CROWTUNG MEMORIES 

known gentle hands reaching across the Atlantic. 
In a small salon adjoining the parlor assigned to the 
party, the wax candles threw a soft light over the 
glass and silver appointments of a table spread for 
their repast. A waiter arranging a dish of fruit at the 
buffet greeted them with a good-evening, as if he 
had been their servitor for years, instead of now lay- 
ing eyes upon them for the first time. In the open 
chimney-place of the parlor was a wood-fire blazing 
cheerfully on the backs of a couple of brass grififins 
who did not seem to mind it. On the mantelpiece 
was an antique clock, flanked by bronze candlesticks 
that would have taken your heart in a bric-a-brac 
shop. Beyond this were the sleeping apartments, 
in the centre of one of which stood the neatest of 
femmes de chambre, with the demurest of dark eyes, 
and the pinkest of ribbons on her cap. On a toilet- 
table under a draped mirror was a slender vase of 
Bohemian glass holding two or three fresh tea-roses. 
What beau of the old regime had slipped out of his 
sculptured tomb to pay madame that gallantry?" 

Paris is a paradise in the early spring; the young 
grass is like velvet and every imaginable shade of 
green lies before one's eyes. In the blossoming of 
trees and shrubs all nature seems alive — a flush, a 
glow, freshness and fulness of bloom. What a pano- 
rama of happy days unrolls to my vision! Memory 
becomes a pantograph bringing back again the sweet 



CROWDING MEMORIES 195 

spring days, the blue skies, the warm and lovely 
sunshine, the great branches of lilacs and roses sold 
at every corner. The life of the streets is so gay and 
cheering that one must perforce catch the spirit of 
the flying sunbeams and the mood and tempera- 
ment of the people. Unfortunately for us, however, 
there was a slight cloud in our skies — the French 
language proved itself "the fly in the ointment," the 
vexatious thorn on the rose. 

Before coming to Paris Mr. Aldrich had taken the 
optimistic view that as he read French with the same 
fluency as he read English, there could be but little 
difficulty in both speaking and understanding that 
language, and was totally unprepared for his precipi- 
tous fall when he realized, when surrounded by 
French voices, that he was both deaf and mute to 
the speech about him. 

Mr. Aldrich was so irritated by his restriction of 
free speech that it was some time before he would 
consent to have any light thrown on his gloomy twi- 
light. Our ignorance of French as spoken by the na- 
tive was not only tiresome but expensive, as we 
found when we were an hour driving about Paris 
in our endeavor to locate the Hotel Bristol ; our mis- 
chance had named it "Bristol," insteadof "Bristall." 
Although Mr. Aldrich could always correctly write 
our desires and destination, it was often as difficult 
for the driver to decipher our English writing as to 



196 CROWDING MEMORIES 

understand our Franco- American words. After suf- 
fering a few days in this Stygian darkness, Mr. Al- 
drich applied to Galignani for a teacher of French. 
In answer to the summons a spinster lady of uncer- 
tain summers found her way to our sitting-room in 
entresol, and with formal authority the lessons in 
French pronunciation began. This mistress of French 
brought with her a small book entitled : 

Le Petit Precepteur 

or 

First Step to Fremh Conversation 

by 

F. Grandineau 

Late French Master to Her Most Gracious Majesty 

Queen Victoria. Author of Conversations familieres 

& I' usage des jeunes demoiselles. 

With Her Most Gracious Majesty for a sponsor, we 
felt that there could be "no offence in it," and that 
perhaps **Le Petit Precepteur" might be the one 
book in the French tongue which the mothers of 
"des jeunes demoiselles'' could safely allow their 
daughters to read — a French lady having told us 
that it was the misfortune of their literature that 
there were no books by distinguished authors that 
would be permissible for the young girl to peruse. 

For a week or more the inane lines of "Le Petit 
Precepteur" were well spoken, "with good accent 
and good discretion," when unexpectedly out of a 
clear sky the revolt came. 



CROWDING MEMORIES 197 

I have pinched my fingers. 

She has knocked her head. 

He has dirtied his coat. 

The eye is stopped up. 

I am so fond of monkeys. 

You have torn little Louise's pantalet. 

With these lines "Le Petit Precepteur" was closed 
with a sudden bang, and with the bang French pro- 
nunciation was consigned forever to Hades. 

Soon after our arrival in Paris, Mr. Aldrich had 
the pleasure of meeting Madame Therese de Solins 
Blanc, better known by her pen-name, "Th. Bent- 
zon." Madame Blanc had translated and published, 
in the "Revue des Deux Mondes," "Marjorie 
Daw," "Mademoiselle Olympe Zabriski," "Pere 
Antoine's Date Palm," and several others of Mr. 
Aldrich's short stories. Madame Blanc was a writer 
of distinction, and of rare personal charm. She was 
the stepdaughter of Comte d'Aure, who was equerry 
to Napoleon III. Comte d'Aure introduced the young 
writer to George Sand, and through this friendship 
Madame Blanc owed the position (which she held 
for many years) on the "Revue des Deux Mondes." 
Madame Blanc's novels, especially "Tony," "Con- 
stance," and "Un Remords," are far beyond the 
average, and were crowned by the French Academy, 
the highest honor to which a French writer can 
aspire. Madame Blanc brought, on her ceremonial 
first visit, a beautifully painted small porcelain in the 



/ 



ipS CROWDING MEMORIES 

shape of a heart, which she presented to her hostess 
with the charming phrase and gracious manner of 
the old regime, asking that the quaintly carved gold 
necklace laid inside the box might sometimes be 
worn, and by wearing bring a remembrance of the 
giver, who saw now that "no trinket of jewel or gold 
could add to the grace and charm of the wearer." 

"The wisest of the wise 
Listen to pretty lies, 
And love to hear them told." 

Very delightful is the memory of an exquisite din- 
ner the Comtesse d'Aure gave in our honor, with its 
shadowy glimpse of what the social world, the Court 
society, must have meant in the days when an Em- 
peror and Empress ruled over France. 



CHAPTER XVIII 

WITH the dinner which had given us such a 
pleasing insight of the intimate interior and 
charm of a true French home, our stay in the beau- 
tiful city ended, for spring in the Campagna, with 
the larks and anemones, called and drew us with 
insidious claim. 

The route from Paris to Lyons led through the 
lovely valley of the Seine. The entire district through 
which we passed was for many miles covered with 
grapevines, the grass by the roadside was green 
and fresh, and the air full of pleasant earthy odors. 
Among the flowering shrubs the clematis and red 
poppy bloomed along the hedges, and over it all 
were the purple light and shadows that lie upon the 
distant hills. 

"We cannot dream too much of France." 

From Lyons our flight was through Marseilles to 
Nice, and then on to that Garden of Eden, Monaco, 
that petty principality which is set like a gem be- 
tween its snow-topped mountains, the rich green 
foliage, the blue sea, the blue sky, and the red rocks 
rising so abruptly. 

We had dejeuner at the Beau S6jour, noted for its 
fastidious cuisine, then followed the enchanting walk 



200 CROWDING MEMORIES 

up the winding avenue, through the tropical gardens 
filled with palm, lemon, and every other kind of tree, 
the beds of heliotrope, roses, and violets making the 
air heavy with the delicious perfume of flowers. In 
this way we came to the doors of that sinful paradise, 
Monte Carlo. 

In the sumptuous apartments of the salles de jeu 
the six green tables were surrounded by men and 
women of all ages and estates, watching with vivid 
interest the turning of the roulette. 

Mr. Aldrich placed on one of the green tables a 
twenty- franc piece and played at " Rouge et Noir." 
With a joyous unconcern, and a gay little nod to the 
croupier as he staked his napoleon, he said, "Suc- 
cess to it. Vive le Roi." The adjuration was heard 
by the fickle goddess who watches over this alluring 
game, for when, after a few turns of the roulette, the 
napoleon returned to the hand that gave it, it 
brought with it many followers — gold enough to 
buy a string of lapis-lazuli beads and a cross of topaz. 
The next day (one of the party proudly clothed in 
these wages of sin) our flight continued over the 
Cornice Road to Genoa. From Genoa through the 
forty tunnels to Pisa. So frequent are these galleries 
and tunnels that it almost seemed as if this extra- 
ordinary rock roughness, in shaping of timber and 
stone, was the work of the sea and the storm. 

At Pisa we saw within its few acres the four build- 



CROWDING MEMORIES 201 

ings, "so fortunate in their solitude and their so- 
ciety," the Cathedral, the Campo Santo, the Bap- 
tistry, and the Leaning Tower. 

The next day's journey brought us to Rome. We 
slept that night in the Hdtel de Russie, in the Piazza 
del Popolo. "Redde, Diana, diem." (Bring back, O 
Diana, the day.) For the next busy weeks "there 
were visits to the Catacombs and the Baths of Cara- 
calla, and excursions to the Campagna — at this 
time of year a vast red sea of poppies strewn with 
the wrecks of ancient tombs; we had breathed the 
musky air of Santa Maria Maggiore and the Ba- 
silica San Paolo ; we had burrowed under the Eternal 
City in crypt and dungeon, and gazed down upon it 
from the dizzy Lantern of Saint Peter's. The blight- 
ing summer was at hand; the phantasmal malaria 
was stalking the Campagna at night: it was time 
to go. There was nothing more to be done in Rome 
unless we paid a visit to a Certain Old Gentleman. 

Mr. Aldrich, in his papers "From Ponkapog to 
Pesth," has told the story so charmingly that I shall 
place it here and let it be a twice-told tale : 

"It was only after the gravest consideration that 
we decided to visit a Certain Old Gentleman. There 
were so many points to be considered. It was by 
no means certain that a Certain Old Gentleman 
wanted us to visit him. Though we knew him, in a 
vague way, to be sure — through friends of ours 



202 CROWDING MEMORIES 

who were friends of his — he did not know us at all. 
Then he was, according to report, a very particular 
old gentleman, standing squarely on his dignity, and 
so hedged about by conventional ideas of social eti- 
quette, so difficult of approach, and so nearly impos- 
sible to become acquainted with when approached, 
that it was an audacious thing seriously to contem- 
plate dropping in on him familiarly. . . . 

"It comes back to me like the reminiscence of a 
dream, rather than as the memory of an actual ex- 
perience, that May afternoon when the purpose 
first unfolded itself to us. We were sitting in the fad- 
ing glow of the day on the last of the four marble 
steps which linked our parlor to the fairy-like garden 
of the Albergo di Russia in the Via Babuino. Our 
rooms were on the ground-floor, and this garden, 
shut in on three sides by the main building and the 
wings of the hotel, and closed at the rear by the Pin- 
cian Hill, up which the garden clambered halfway 
in three or four luxuriant terraces, seemed naturally 
to belong to our suite of apartments. All night we 
could hear the drip of the fountain among the cactus 
leaves, and catch at intervals the fragrance of 
orange-blooms, blown in at the one window we 
dared leave open. It was here we took the morning 
air a few minutes before breakfast; it was on these 
steps we smoked our cigar after the wonders of the 
day were done. We had the garden quite to ourselves, 



CROWDING MEMORIES 203 

for the cautious tourist had long since taken wing 
from Rome, frightened by the early advance of sum- 
mer. The great caravansary was nearly empty. 
Aside from the lizards, I do not recollect seeing any 
living creature in that garden during our stay, ex- 
cept a little frowsy wad of a dog, which dashed into 
our premises one morning, and seizing on a large piece 
of sponge made off with it up the Pincian Hill. If that 
sponge fell to the lot of some time-encrusted Roman- 
ese, and Providence was merciful enough to inspire 
him with a conception of its proper use, it cannot 
be said of the little Skye terrier that he lived in vain. 

"This was our second sojourn in Rome, and we 
had spent two industrious weeks, picking up the 
threads of the Past, dropped temporarily in April 
in order to run down and explore Naples before 
Southern Italy became too hot to hold us. . . . There 
was nothing more to be done in Rome unless we did 
the Roman fever — nothing but that, indeed, if we 
were not inclined to pay a visit to a Certain Old 
Gentleman. This alternative appeared to have so 
many advantages over the Roman fever that it at 
once took the shape of an irresistible temptation. . . . 

"Though the discussion did not end here that May 
evening on the steps of the hotel-garden, it ends here 
in my record; it being sufficient for the reader to 
know that we then and there resolved to undertake 
the visit in question. The scribe of the party dis- 



204 CROWDING MEMORIES 

patched a note to SIgnor V expressing a desire 

to pay our respects to his venerable friend before 
we left town, and begging that an early day, if any, 

be appointed for the Interview. SIgnor V was an 

Italian acquaintance of ours who carried a diplomatic 
key that fitted almost any lock. 

'*We breakfasted betimes, the next morning, and 

sat lingering over our coffee, awaiting SIgnor V 's 

reply to our note. The reply had so impressive an air 
of not coming, that we fell to planning an excursion 
to Tivoli, and had ordered a carriage to that end, 
when Stefano appeared, bearing an envelope on his 
silver-plated waiter. (I think Stefano was born with 
that waiter in his hand ; he never laid It down for a 
moment ; if any duty obliged him to use both hands, 
he clapped the waiter under his arm or between his 
knees; I used to fancy that it was attached to his 
body by some mysterious, invisible ligament, the 
severing of which would have caused his Instant dis- 
solution.) SIgnor V advised us that his venerable 

friend would be gracious enough to receive us that 
very day at one half-hour after noon. In a post- 
script the sIgnor intimated that the gentlemen would 
be expected to wear evening dress, minus gloves, and 
that it was imperative on the part of Madama to be 
costumed completely in black and to wear only a 
black veil on her hair. Such was one of the whims of 
a Certain Old Gentleman. 



CROWDING MEMORIES 205 

"Here a dilemma arose. Among Madama's ward- 
robe there was no costume of this lugubrious de- 
scription. The nearest approach to it was a statu- 
esque black robe, elaborately looped and covered 
with agreeable arabesques of turquoise-blue silk. 
There was nothing to do but to rip off these celestial 
trimmings, and they were ripped off, though it went 
against the woman-heart. Poor, vain little silk dress, 
that had never been worn, what swift retribution 
overtook you for being nothing but artistic, and 
graceful, and lovely, and — Parisian, which includes 
all blessed adjectives! 

"From the bottom of a trunk in which they had 

lain since we left London, H and I exhumed our 

dress-coats. Though perfectly new (like their amiable 
sister, the black silk gown), they came out looking re- 
markably aged. They had inexplicable bulges in the 
back, as if they had been worn by somebody with six 
or eight shoulder-blades, and were covered all over 
in front with minute wrinkles, recalling the famous 
portrait of the late Mr. Parr in his hundred and 
fiftieth year. H and I got into our creased ele- 
gance with not more intemperate comment than 
might be pardoned, and repaired to the parlor, where 
we found Madama arranging a voluminous veil of 
inky crape over her hair, and regarding herself in 
a full-length mirror with gloomy satisfaction. The 
carriage was at the porte cocker e, and we departed, 



2o6 CROWDING MEMORIES 

stealing silently through the deserted hotel corridor, 
and looking for all the world, I imagine, like a couple 
of rascally undertakers making off with a nun. . . . 

"Notwithstanding our deliberations over the mat- 
ter at the hotel, I think I had not fully realized 
that in proposing to visit a Certain Old Gentleman 
we were proposing to visit the Pope of Rome. The 
proposition had seemed all along like a piece of mild 
pleasantry, as if one should say, * I think I '11 drop 
round on Titus Flavius in the course of the fore- 
noon,' or ' I Ve half a mind to look in on Cicero and 
Pompey, and see how they feel this morning after 
their little dissipation last night at the villa of Lu- 
cullus.' The Pope of Rome — not the Pope regnant, 
but the Pope of Rome in the abstract — had up to 
that hour presented himself to my mental eye as 
an august spectacular figure-head, belonging to no 
particular period, who might turn out after all to 
be an ingenious historical fiction perpetrated by the 
same humorist that invented Pocahontas. The Pope 
of Rome ! — he had been as vague to me as Adam 
and as improbable as Noah. 

"But there stood Signor V at the carriage- 
step, waiting to conduct us into the Vatican, and 
there, on either side of the portals at the head of the 
massive staircase, lounged two of the papal guard 
in that jack-of-diamonds costume which Michael 
Angelo designed for them — in the way of a prac- 



CROWDING MEMORIES 207 

tical joke, I fancy. They held halberds in their 
hands, these mediaeval gentlemen, and it was a 
mercy they did n't chop us to pieces as we passed 
between them. What an absurd uniform for a man- 
at-arms of the nineteenth century! These fellows, 
clad in rainbow, suggested a pair of harlequins out 
of a Christmas pantomime. Farther on we came to 
more stone staircase, and more stupid papal guard 
with melodramatic battle-axes, and were finally 
ushered into a vast, high-studded chamber at the 
end of a much-stuccoed corridor. 

"Coming as we did out of the blinding sunshine, 
this chamber seemed to us at first but a gloomy 
cavern. It was so poorly lighted by numerous large 
windows on the western side that several seconds 
elapsed before we could see anything distinctly. One 
or two additional windows would have made it 
quite dark. At the end of the apartment, near the 
door at which we had entered, was a dais with three 
tawdry rococo gilt armchairs, having for back- 
ground an enormous painting of the Virgin, but by 
what master I was unable to make out. The draper- 
ies of the room were of some heavy dark stuff, a 
green rep, if I remember, and the floor was covered 
with a thick carpet through which the solid stone 
flagging beneath repelled the pressure of your foot. 
There was a singular absence of color everywhere, 
of that mosaic work and Renaissance gilding with 



2o8 CROWDING MEMORIES 

which the eyes soon become good friends in Italy. 
The frescoes of the ceihng, if there were any fres- 
coes, were in some shy neutral tint, and did not 
introduce themselves to us. On the right, at the 
other extremity of the room, was a double door, 
which led, as we were correct in supposing, to the 
private apartments of the Pope. 

"Presently our eyes grew reconciled to the semi- 
twilight, which seemed to have been transported 
hither with a faint spicy odor of incense from some 
ancient basilica — a proper enough light for an 
audience-chamber in the Vatican. Fixed against the 
wall on either side, and extending nearly the entire 
length of the room, was a broad settee, the greater 
part of which was already occupied when we entered. 

"A cynic has observed that all cats are gray in 
the twilight. He said cats, but meant women. I am 
convinced that all women are not alike in a black 
silk dress, very simply trimmed and with no color 
about it except a white rose at the corsage. There 
are women — perhaps not too many — whose beauty 
is heightened by an austere toilette. Such a one was 
the lady opposite me, with her veil twisted under 
her chin and falling negligently over the left shoul- 
der. The beauty of her face flashed out like a dia- 
mond from its sombre setting. She had the brightest 
of dark eyes, with such a thick, long fringe of dark 
eyelashes that her whole countenance turned into 



CROWDING MEMORIES 209 

night when she drooped her eyeHds; when she lifted 
them, it was morning again. As if to show us what 
might be done in the matter of contrasts, nature 
had given this lady some newly coined Roman gold 
for hair. I think Eve was that way — both blonde 
and brunette. My vis-d-vis would have been gracious 
in any costume, but I am positive that nothing 
would have gone so well with her as the black silk 
dress, fitting closely to the pliant bust and not losing 
a single line or curve. As she sat, turned three quar- 
ters face, the window behind her threw the outlines 
of her slender figure into sharp relief. The lady her- 
self was perfectly well aware of it. 

"Next to this charming person was a substantial 
English matron, who wore her hair done up in a 
kind of turret, and looked like a lithograph of a 
distant view of Windsor Castle. She sat bolt up- 
right, and formed, if I may say so, the initial letter 
of a long line of fascinatingly ugly women. Imagine 
a row of Sphinxes in deep mourning. It would have 
been an unbroken line of feminine severity, but for 
a handsome young priest with a strikingly spiritual 
face, who came in, like a happy word in parenthesis, 
halfway down the row. I soon exhausted the re- 
sources of this part of the room; my eyes went back 
to the Italian lady so prettily framed in the em- 
brasure of the window, and would have lingered 
there had I not got interested in an old gentleman 



2IO CROWDING MEMORIES 

seated on my left. When he came into the room, 
blinking his kindly blue eyes and rubbing his hands 
noiselessly together and beaming benevolently on 
everybody, just as if he were expected, I fell in love 
with him. His fragile, aristocratic hands appeared 
to have been done up by the same blanchisseuse who 
did his linen, which was as white and crisp as an 
Alpine snow-drift, as were also two wintry strands 
of hair artfully trained over either ear. Otherwise he 
was as bald and shiny as a glacier. He seated himself 
with an old-fashioned, courteous bow to the com- 
pany assembled, and a protesting wave of the hand, 
as if to say, * Good people, I pray you, do not disturb 
yourselves,' and made all that side of the room 
bright with his smiling. He looked so clean and 
sweet, just such a wholesome figure as one would 
like to have at one's fireside as grandfather, that I 
began formulating the wish that I might, thirty or 
forty years hence, be taken for his twin brother; 
when a neighbor of his created a disturbance. 

"This neighbor was a young Italian lady or gen- 
tleman — I cannot affirm which — of perhaps ten 
months' existence, who up to the present time had 
been asleep in the arms of its bonne. Awakening sud- 
denly, the bambino had given vent to the shrillest 
shrieks, impelled thereto by the strangeness of the 
surrounding features, or perhaps by some conscien- 
tious scruples about being in the Vatican. I picked 



CROWDING MEMORIES 211 

out the mother at once by the worried expression 
that flew to the countenance of a lady near me, and 
in a gentleman who instantly assumed an air of 
having no connection whatever with the baleful in- 
fant, I detected the father. I do not remember to 
have seen a stronger instance of youthful depravity 
and duplicity than that lemon-colored child afforded. 
The moment the nurse walked with it, it sunk into 
the sweetest of slumber, and peace settled upon its 
little nose like a drowsy bee upon the petal of a 
flower; but the instant the bonne made a motion to 
sit down, it broke forth again. I do not know what 
ultimately befell the vocal goblin; possibly it was 
collared by the lieutenant of the guard outside, and 
thrown into the deepest dungeon of the palace; at 
all events it disappeared after the announcement 
that his Holiness would be with us shortly. What- 
ever virtues Pius IX possessed, punctuality was not 
one of them, for he had kept us waiting three quar- 
ters of an hour, and we had still another fifteen 
minutes to wait. 

"The monotonous hum of conversation hushed 
itself abruptly, the two sections of the wide door I 
have mentioned were thrown open, and the Pope, 
surrounded by his cardinals and a number of foreign 
princes, entered. The occupants of the two long 
settees rose, and then, as if they were automata 
worked by the same tyrannical wire, sunk simulta- 



212 CRO\AT)rNrG MEMORIES 

neously into an attitude of devotion. For an Instant 
I was seized with a desperate desire not to kneel. 
There is something in an American knee, when it is 
rightly constructed, that makes it an awkward thing 
to kneel with before any man bom of woman. Per- 
haps, if the choice were left one, either to prostrate 
one's self before a certain person or be shot, one 
might make a point of it — and be shot. But that 
was not the alternative in the present case. And 
so I slid softly down with the rest of the miserable 
sinners. I was in the very act, when I was chilled to 
the marrow by catching a sidelong glimpse of my 
benign old gentleman placidly leaning back in his 
seat, with his hands folded over his well-filled waist- 
coat and that same benevolent smile petrified on his 
countenance. He was fast asleep. 

"Immediately a tall, cadaverous person in a 
scant, funereal garment emerged from somewhere, 
and touched the sleeper on the shoulder. The old 
gentleman unclosed his eyes slowly and with diffi- 
culty, and was so far from taking in the situation 
that he made a gesture as if to shake hands with the 
tall, cadaverous person. Then it all flashed upon the 
dear old boy, and he dropped to his knees with so 
comical and despairing an air of contrition that the 
presence of forty thousand popes would not have 
prevented me from laughing. 

"All eyes were now turned toward the Pope and 



CROWDING MEMORIES 213 

his suite, and this trifling episode passed unnoticed 
save by two or three individuals in the immediate 
neighborhood, who succeeded in swallowing their 
smiles, but did not dare glance at each other aft- 
erwards. The Pope advanced to the centre of the 
upper end of the room, leaning heavily on his ivory- 
handled cane, the princes in black and the cardinals 
in scarlet standing behind him in picturesque groups, 
like the chorus in an opera. Indeed, it was all like 
a scene on the stage. There was something pre- 
meditated and spectacular about it, as if these per- 
sons had been engaged for the occasion. Several of 
the princes were Russian, with names quite well 
adapted to not being remembered. Among the Ital- 
ian gentlemen was Cardinal Nobli Vatteleschi — he 
was not a cardinal then, by the way — who died 
not long ago, 

"Within whispering distance of the Pope stood 
Cardinal Antonelli — a man who would not escape 
observation in any assembly of notable personages. 
If the Inquisition should be revived in its early 
genial form, and the reader should fall into its 
hands — as would very likely be the case, if a branch 
office were established in this country — he would 
feel scarcely comfortable if his chief inquisitor had 
so cold and subtle a countenance as Giacome 
Antonelli's. 

" It was a pleasure to turn from the impassible 



214 CROWDING MEMORIES 

prime minister to the gentle and altogether inter- 
esting figure of his august master, with his small, 
sparkling eyes, remarkably piercing when he looked 
at you point-blank, and a smile none the less win- 
some that it lighted up a mouth denoting unusual 
force of will. His face was not at all the face of a 
man who had passed nearly half a century in ardu- 
ous diplomatic and ecclesiastical labors; it was cer- 
tainly the face of a man who had led a temperate, 
blameless private life, in noble contrast to many 
of his profligate predecessors, whom the world was 
only too glad to have snugly stowed away in their 
gorgeous porphyry coflins with a marble mistress 
carved atop. 

"After pausing a moment or two in the middle of 
the chamber, and taking a bird's-eye glance at his 
guests, the Pope began his rounds. Assigned to each 
group of five or ten persons was an official who pre- 
sented the visitors by name, indicating their nation- 
ality, station, etc. So far as the nationality was 
involved, that portion of the introduction was ob- 
viously superfluous, for the Pope singled out his 
countrymen at a glance, and at once addressed them 
in Italian, scarcely waiting for the master of cere- 
monies to perform his duties. To foreigners his 
Holiness spoke in French. After a few words of sal- 
utation he gave his hand to each person, who 
touched it with his lips or his forehead, or simply 



CROWDING MEMORIES 215 

retained it an instant. It was a deathly cold hand, 
on the forefinger of which was a great seal ring bear- 
ing a mottled gray stone that seemed frozen. As the 
Pope moved slowly along, devotees caught at the 
hem of his robe and pressed it to their lips, and in 
most instances bowed down and kissed his feet. I 
suppose it was only by years of practice that his 
Holiness was able to avoid stepping on a nose here 
and there. 

" It came our turn at last. As he approached us he 
said, with a smile, 'Ah, I see you are Americans.' 

Signer V then presented us formally, and the 

Pope was kind enough to say to us what he had 
probably said to twenty thousand other Americans 
in the course of several hundred similar occasions. 

"His Holiness then addressed to his guests the 
neatest of farewells, delivered in enviable French, 
in which he wished a prosperous voyage to those 
pilgrims whose homes lay beyond the sea, and a 
happy return to all. When he touched, as he did 
briefly, on the misfortunes of the church, an ador- 
able fire came into his eyes ; fifty of his eighty- three 
winters slipped from him as if by enchantment, and 
for a few seconds he stood forth in the prime of life. 
He spoke some five or seven minutes, and nothing 
could have been more dignified and graceful than 
the matter and manner of his words. The benedic- 
tion was followed by a general rustle and movement 



2i6 CROWDING MEMORIES 

among the princes and eminenze at the farther end 

of the room; the double door opened softly, and 

closed — and that was the last the Pope saw of us." 

There was still one more visit to be made before 

we set off upon our northern flight — to stand again 

by the tomb that held the heart of Shelley, to bend 

the knee at the grave of Keats. 

"Within the shadow of the Pyramid 
Of Caius Cestius was this daisy found, 
White as the soul of Keats in Paradise, 
The pansy — there were hundreds of them, hid 
In the thick grass that folded Shelley's mound, 
Guarding his ashes with most lovely eyes." 

This visit paid, with a homesick sinking of the 
heart we drank our last bottle of Lacrima Christi, 
loosened the cords that bound us to the Eternal 
City, and turned our faces eastwards as far as 
Vienna and Budapest; went along the Thone, and 
spent the summer in the cathedral towns of Eng- 
land until September, when we gladly embarked on 
the Cunard ship Scythia for home and the jocund 
sprites, whose letters of recall met us at Liverpool. 

"Dear Mama 

** I will tell you what I learn in Sunday school 
this is a little I learn 

"a little sparrow cannot 
fall unnoticed lord by 
thee and though I 



CROWDING MEMORIES 217 



am so young and 
small thou dost take 
care of me 

"I cannot write any longer good by 

from your Dear 

"Talbot." 



QJa^Q^ ^M^oytyut. 



vnll^ r^^c^ 'urUyc^ 9 



2i8 CROWDING MEMORIES 

"Dear Papa 

"We are all well. 
Talbot is playing his fiddle I want a fiddle I will ex- 
pect a fiddle when you come home 
"from your loving 

"Charley F. Aldrich." 



-^ XXAjl 4^ -UmM 



^r> 






CHAPTER XIX 

VICTOR HUGO'S famous line — " Depart with 
a tear, enter with a smile" — well expressed 
the tenor of our minds as we set sail from Queens- 
town, homeward-bound. The waiting hearts and the 
bright eyes of the jocund sprites were the beacon 
lights in our ocean highway, deadening the cruelties 
of the implacable seas that made the rolling ships 
of that day an abiding-place of misery. 

In answer to a note of welcome from Mr. Stedman 
soon after his arrival, Mr. Aldrich wrote : 

*'I have had a very rich six months. I am quite 
certain that whatever I do in future will bear the 
impress of that wider experience. I had to laugh 
over the cutting you enclosed from the Rev. Tal- 
mage's paper — the idea of my being, even in- 
directly, of any assistance to a 'Christian at work,' 
gave me a curious and novel sensation of unexpected 
usefulness!" 

Mark Twain's cordial letter of welcome ended, 
"God knows we are glad to have you back, but 
don't talk!" To Mr. Fields, Mr. Aldrich wrote, "We 
enjoyed keenly every moment, and I have come 
back chockful of mental intaglios and Venetian 
glass and literary bric-a-brac generally." 



220 CROWDING MEMORIES 

The pomegranate seed of recollected travel which 
first bore flower was the lovely imaginative story of 
the "Bambino d'Ara Coeli." The summer afternoon 
passed in this ancient church is still so vivid that 
I almost hear again Mr. Aldrich's voice. As we sit 
under the golden ceiling, the faint perfume of in- 
cense about us, Mr. Aldrich with magic touch 
brings to my vision the world of people that crowded 
this vast and solemn space — the triumphal pro- 
cession of emperors and generals, senators and idlers, 
priests and monks, all took shape again, and from 
the Sacristy, on flights of prayer, the holy Bambino 
floated on celestial wings. 

"How it comes back, that hour in June 
When just to exist was joy enough. 
I can see the olives, silvery gray, 
The carven masonry, rich with stains, 
The gothic windows and lead-set panes, 
The flag-paved cortile, the convent gates." 

Leaving the church, we walked to the fountain of 
Trevi for a parting draught of this precious water, 
for the tradition is still believed that to partake of 
its glistening drops insures the traveller's return to 
Rome. There is scarcely a busier scene in Rome than 
the neighborhood of this fountain. As we stood for 
a moment and watched the wandering traffic, a 
sudden silence fell as old men, young men, women 
and children dropped to their knees as a procession 
of priests came in view, carrying on a raised dais 



CROWDING MEMORIES 221 

the miraculous Bambino, to work its miracle at the 
bedside of the sick and dying. Devout peasants and 
others not so devout always kneel as the Blessed 
Infant passes, swathed in its white dress encrusted 
with diamonds and rubies, with which the brands 
plucked from the burning have endowed the little 
black figure of wood. The veneration and awe, the 
adoring love portrayed on the faces of those who 
knelt gave Mr. Aldrich the motij for the poem which 
he wrote soon after his return. 

THE LEGEND OF ARA CCELI 

Whoever will go to Rome may see 
In the Chapel of the Sacristy 
Of Ara Coeli, the Sainted Child — 
Garnished from throat to foot with rings 
And brooches and precious offerings. 



It has its minions to come and go, 
Its perfumed chamber, remote and still, 
Its silken couch and its jewelled throne, 
And a special carriage of its own 
To take the air in, when it will ; 

Often some princess, brown and tall, 
Comes, and unclasping from her arm 
The glittering bracelet, leaves it, warm 
With her throbbing pulse, at the Baby's feet. 

In a letter to Mr. Howells, Mr. Aldrich writes 
of this narrative poem: "The bare story I know is 
lov^ely and sufficient. Of the art I cannot judge now. 



222 CROWDING MEMORIES 

I took the greatest pleasure in writing it, and my 
savage critic says she thinks it 'the best poem I 
have ever written — or will write.' I hope she is a 
good judge and no prophetess!" 

The two years following the home-coming were 
uneventful of incidents, Mr. Aldrich returning with 
fresh interest to his poems and sketches. The sum- 
mers were passed at Lynn Terrace, the winters di- 
vided between Boston and Ponkapog, with occa- 
sional visits to New York, that city still holding the 
old-time habit of its citizens condensing the formal 
and social calls of the coming year into the one day 
— "New Year's Day." The custom of paying visits 
was so universal that months beforehand, unless one 
chose to walk, carriages must be engaged, the price 
of which was often as high as fifty dollars for a few 
hours. The ladies in receiving wore their prettiest 
dresses and choicest smiles, all keeping notebooks in 
which the number of calls was marked, and serious 
was the rivalry between the houses of Montague 
and Capulet as to which, at the end of the day, 
could show the larger plurality of names. Banks and 
offices were closed, the day being given over to this 
social function. Each house had its table of generous 
viands, a punch was brewed, and for special guests 
champagne corks flew with generous prodigality. 
Mr. and Mrs. Stedman invited Mr. Aldrich to come 
to New York for this day and share in the pleasure 




ALDRICH AT LYNN TERRACE 



CROWDING MEMORIES 223 

of meeting their mutual friends. Mrs. Stedman un- 
fortunately did not always rise to the heights on 
which her husband stood. She was, however, a most 
kind and loyal friend, who answered truly and with 
plain speaking that was the antithesis of Mr. Sted- 
man's tact. I remember well on this occasion the 
ruthful and perplexed expression of a caller's face 
as he said, in making his adieux, *' I am taking flight; 
I am out of my element, out of my place even in 
breathing the air among so many distinguished men 
as I have left in the other room." The reply must at 
least have been unexpected to the speaker: "Oh, 
you must not mind that, Mr. Blank, for we really 
do know many persons who are not distinguished ! ! ! " 

Another amusing memory of the day is of Mr. 
Edgar Fawcett, a young poet who was much in 
evidence, and who took himself very seriously, and 
the introduction to him of a typical New York 
banker, or bishop, perhaps, who said, "Ah, Mr. 
Fawcett, Mr. Edgar Fawcett? I remember seeing 
your name in the corners of newspapers, attached 
to poems, pretty little poems, too, I thought them." 
Said Mr. Fawcett, with becoming humility, "Oh, 
they are small flights, not worth speaking about." 
Thereupon the banker, or bishop, touched him 
encouragingly on the shoulder, saying, "Oh, well, 
never mind, you will likely do better next time." 

In a letter written to Mr. Stedman in 1878 Mr. 



224 CROWDING MEMORIES 

Aldrich writes: " I have had a wholly delightful and 
nearly idle summer at Swampscott, and am now 
back again among the Blue Hills and hard at work. 
Am three chapters deep in a novel of different cast 
from any fiction I have attempted lately — tragedy 
this time — I am going to get my humor a set of 
sables." The end of the year was much saddened by 
the death of Mr. Taylor. In November, Mr. Aldrich 
had written Mr. Stedman, "I have a presentiment 
he will never return." On December 20, Mr. Aldrich 
writes again to Mr. Stedman: "I cannot speak or 
write about it. It gave me such a shock in the soli- 
tude here. It was at the supper-table last night. I 
was laughing as I unfolded 'The Tribune,' and then 
I read, ' Bayard Taylor dead.' I shall be in New York 
all day on the 7th of January. We sail on the 8th on 
the Abyssinia, and I want a quiet half-hour's talk 
with you somewhere, if it can be arranged." The 
lure of the glistering drops of the fountain of Trevi 
had worked their charm and proved the tradition 
true, that those who drink of its waters will return. 

Mr. Aldrich sailed for Europe the first week of the 
New Year,' 1879. And although "our bark was ready, 
the winds were not fair." The Abyssinia was obliged 
to anchor for the night, making until noon of the next 
day the meagre distance of thirty-seven miles. We 
arrived at Liverpool on the eleventh day from New 
York. The memory of the blazing wood fire that 



CROWDING MEMORIES 225 

greeted us in the large hall of the North-Westera 
Hotel bums still in memory as brightly as on that 
unforgettable night when to be again on land was a 
foretaste of heaven. Spain was the objective point 
of the journey: 

"Behind me lie the idle life and vain, 

The task unfinished and the weary hours! 
The long wave softly bears me back to Spain 
And the Alhambra's towers." 

London was bitterly cold and cheerless with its 
fogs, Paris little better. We hurried on, making short 
stops at Orleans, Blois, Angers, Nantes, Bordeaux, 
Paris, Biarritz to Bayonne, where we saw the ad- 
vertisements hung up in the hotels of approaching 
bull-fights, and knew by this that the boundary line 
was all that separated us from the country of ro- 
mance, of troubadours, of feathery palms and tall 
cypresses, fountains, rich Moorish gateways and 
palaces, Moorish domes so light they seem but rest- 
ing clouds: 

"Place of forgotten kings, 

With fountains that never play, 
And gardens where day by day 
The lonely cicada sings. 

"Traces are everywhere 

Of the dusky race that came 
And passed like a sudden flame, 
Leaving their sighs in the air!" 

We entered Spain at Irun, the western extremity 



226 CROWDING MEMORIES 

of the Pyrenees, arriving late in the evening at 
Burgos, and wasting most of the night in trying to 
persuade the proprietor of the Fonda del Norte to 
procure for our beds some fresh linen. There were no 
sheets or blankets. The covering of the beds con- 
sisted of huge cushions or beds, encased in a bag 
that once was white, but from age and usage had 
ceased to have any definite color and was a mixture 
of all combined. 

The old city of Burgos was founded in the ninth 
centur^^ as a protection against the Moors. It was 
the capital of Castile until Charles V made Madrid 
the metropolis. Madrid had for Mr. Aldrich a double 
pleasure — the treasures of the galleries and the re- 
newed friendship with JMr. Lowell, who had been 
appointed Minister to Spain the year before. In 
Mr. Greenslet's most interesting book, "James Rus- 
sell Lowell, His Life and Work," he quotes a let- 
ter UTitten to Thomas Hughes, which is so in the 
spirit of what Mr. Lowell said to Mr. Aldrich, that 
I copy it: 

"I had a hard row to hoe at first! All alone, with- 
out a human being I had ever seen before in my life, 
and with unaccustomed duties, feeling as if I were 
beset with snares on every hand, obliged to carry on 
the greater part of my business in a strange tongue 
— it was rather trying for a man with so sympathetic 
and sensitive a temperament as mine, and I don't 



CROWDING MEMORIES 227 

much wonder the gout came upon me like an armed 
man." 

In memory I can see Mr. Lowell standing with 
his hand on a chair, and the mischievous twinkle in 
his brown eyes as he said: "Think of the ridiculous 
situation. I, who thought of myself as one fully pro- 
ficient and skilled in the Spanish language, knew 
so little of its colloquial form that when a man came 
into my office I did not know how to ask him to take 
a chair and sit down." Then with a deeper twinkle 
of the eye, he added — "I could have asked him in 
old Spanish, though, and had the advantage." Mr. 
Lowell was very amusing in speaking of his experi- 
ence with ex- President Grant. Mr. Lowell said that, 
when he was still baffied with his unaccustomed du- 
ties and hedged about with the rigidity of Spanish 
etiquette, word was sent to him that General Grant, 
accompanied by his wife and son, were to visit Ma- 
drid. The question as to what dignity or form in his 
reception should be conceded to General Grant had 
given most of the European Cabinets much tribula- 
tion. Spain averted the embarrassing situation by 
deciding that General Grant should be received as 
a great Commander. A large dinner was given to 
General Grant, but after the long lapse of years it es- 
capes my memory if the American Minister was the 
host of that evening, or the Spanish Government. 
But the twinkling eye does not escape my memory, 



228 CROWDING MEMORIES 

as Mr. Lowell told of his amusement and great satis- 
faction in the perfect attitude of JNIrs. Grant, who was 
seated between two diplomats, a Frenchman and a 
Spaniard. ]\Ir. Lowell said JNIrs. Grant did not speak 
either French or Spanish, but there was not an inter- 
val during that dinner in which she was not listen- 
ing, apparently with rapt attention, or repljdng, with 
continuous conversation, to their uncomprehended 
remarks. INIr. Lowell said, "I don't know what she 
was saying, it may have been the Lord's Prayer, or 
Longfellow's poem 'Excelsior,' or the Declaration 
of Independence ; but to the guests at the table she 
gave the pleasant appearance of being delightfully 
entertained and entertaining." The two diplomats 
proved equal to the occasion, and the complaisant 
triangle of three diplomats moved smoothly on to 
the end of the dinner. 

In one of Mr. Aldrich's papers In "From Ponka- 
pog to Pesth," he writes of this year's journey: 

"A visit to Tangier was not down in my itinerary 
at all, but on reaching Gibraltar after prolonged wan- 
dering through the interior of Spain, Africa threw 
itself in my way, so to speak, and I have a rare ad- 
vantage over everybody who has ever visited that 
country and written about it. I remained there only 
one day — the standpoint from which I view the 
Dark Continent is thus unique. ..." 

Leaving Africa, "the spirit in our feet" led us to 



CROWDING MEMORIES 229 

Malaga, Granada, Cartagena, Almeria, Alicante, 
Valencia, Tarragona, and Barcelona, where we left 
Spain for France and Carcassonne, the city Mr. 
Lowell had urged us to visit, considering it the finest 
specimen of a walled town. 

"They tell me every day is there 

Not more or less than Sunday gay; 
In shining robes and garments fair 

The people walk upon their way. 
One gazes there on castle walls 

As grand as those of Babylon, 
A bishop and two generals! 

What joy to be in Carcassonne ! 

Ah! might I but see Carcassonne!" 

Leaving Carcassonne, we made a "Little Tour" 
through France and Italy, drinking again the magic 
drops of the fountain of Trevi. From Rome we went 
to the Italian Lakes, and on to Paris, where Mr. 
Clemens awaited our coming. He had most comfort- 
ably ensconced his family at the Hotel Normandy, 
and was himself very busily engaged in wrestling 
with the French language, which he said was illit- 
erate, untenable, unscrupulous, for if the Frenchman 
knew how to spell he did not know how to pronounce 
— and if he knew how to pronounce he certainly did 
not know how to spell. How it all comes back and 
springs to memory — the wit, the chaff, the merry 
dinners in the rue de I'Eschelle, the gaiety and 
laughter! Mr. Clemens said, "When Aldrich speaks 



230 CROWDING MEMORIES 

it seems to me he is the bright face of the moon, and 
I feel Hke the other side." A dinner which the Com- 
tesse d'Aure and Madame Blanc gave to Mr. Aldrich 
and Mr. Clemens is still, to the only survivor of that 
happy hour, most clear and vivid. For some forgot- 
ten reason Mrs. Clemens could not accept her invi- 
tation. Manifold were her requests and instructions 
to her dear "Youth," to hold indelibly in his mind 
the etiquette of a dinner in polite society in France 
— not to allow it to slip from his mind for a second 
that he was dining in "royal circles," and that men- 
tally he must nail himself to his chair, and resist all 
inclination to rise before the dinner was half over and 
take his usual promenade round and round the table. 
It was arranged that we should call for Mr. Clem- 
ens. Mrsi Clemens, in consigning her charge to my 
care, said, "If you see the slightest preparation on 
Mark's part to rise from his chair before the dinner 
is finished, pray stop him, for if left to himself he 
will forget he is not at dinner at home." It was a 
brilliant dinner. Everything went smoothly and well, 
until suddenly, without any premonitory symptoms 
whatever, Mr. Clemens, uprising from his chair and 
with perfect unconsciousness, began his rapid prom- 
enade round and round the table, holding his large 
white napkin in his hand and using it as an Admiral 
might his flag, were he making code signals to his 
squadron. Suddenly remembrance came — the fur- 




West House. /^M,. /7^Sfe 




CROWDING MEMORIES 231 

tive and delinquent look to his chaperon — the 
quick descent to the vacant chair — are the white 
stones in that day's memory. 

Before we set sail for home, there was a short stay 
in London, in the pleasant May days: 

* "It's lilac time in London, it's lilac time in London." 

The short stay was made more delightful with the 
pleasant meeting of old and new friends. Memory 
gives back a summer afternoon, and the coming of 
Mr. Henry James, who had elected, as he said, "to 
be a unit in this great city," and although his share 
would be infinitesimal, he still could claim that he 
was part of this great heart of the world. 

Mr. James was most interesting with his experi- 
ences of the London life as it presented itself — he 
had become familiar with society and no longer re- 
sented going down to dinner the last of the long line 
and with the least attractive lady on his arm, but 
not a lady of quality ; he must content himself with 
plain " Mrs.," he said. Titles were for his betters. Mr. 
James told an amusing anecdote of taking tea with 
Mrs. Millais, and of Mr. Ruskin being one of the 
guests, Mrs. Millais asking Mr. Ruskin, with an 
adorable smile, "Do you take one or two lumps of 
sugar in your tea? I have forgotten." 

There was a delightful renewal of old friendship 
with Mr. George Boughton, Royal Academician 



232 CROWDING MEMORIES 

and charming artist. Mr. Comyns Carr, in sketching 
Mr. Boughton, said, "He achieved in England a de- 
servedly high place among his comrades — he was 
a man of fine taste and delicate perception both in 
the region of art and in the broader field of litera- 
ture." Mr. and Mrs. Boughton, before they built 
their house upon Campden Hill, had begun to be 
known as accepted hosts by a large body of artis- 
tic society. In later days the big studio at Camp- 
den Hill became the scene of many joyous enter- 
tainments. Mr. Browning was a constant guest at 
the Boughtons' dinners, and the house became a 
meeting-place for nearly all who were interested 
In art. 

On our arrival In London, we were Invited to a 
fancy-dress ball, given by Mr. and Mrs. Boughton 
to inaugurate a new studio. At first the invitation 
was declined, we having no costumes and little time 
or inclination to procure them. Mr. Boughton was 
most insistent upon our coming, and as insistent that 
his "studio effects" could furnish every costume 
needed. Finally he took the ground of our excuse 
from under our feet by sending to our hotel a gown 
of yellow satin, brocaded with silver leaves and 
flowers, and all the appointments complete for a 
Lady of Quality of the Watteau period. A note ac- 
companied the Pandora box, which read something 
-in this wise, "A red rose in your powdered hair, a 



CROWDING MEMORIES 233 

touch of rouge on your cheek, and I 'kneel at your 
feet and adore!' ' 

There was nothing to be done but to yield and 
send for a coiffeur. When the evening came, the red 
rose was put in the powdered, puffed, and ringleted 
hair, the cheeks were rouged, and the slight figure 
put into the brocaded gown. The coiffeur took his 
ducats and departure, and the Lady of Quality met 
with disaster. Mr. Aldrich did not like the "monu- 
mental pomp" of the white hair, and with much 
disappointment he so expressed himself. In the- 
atrical parlance there was a "quick change" — the 
powder was brushed from the blonde hair, the plain 
black silk dress, whose azure trimmings had been 
sacrificed in the visit to the Pope the year before, 
replaced the satin brocade, and with the added 
accessories of a tortoise-shell comb and fan it was 
hoped the wearer might be labelled in the passing 
crowd — "Spanish Lady." 

"Held by a silver dart, 

The mantilla's delicate lace 

Falls each side of her face 

And crossway over her heart — 



ThisisPepita— " 

who, Mr. Aldrich said, "looked much neater and 
completer." 
When we arrived at Mr. Boughton's we found the 



234 CROWDING MEMORIES 

hall and stairway quite blocked by a figure in full 
armor on the stairs, a policeman and several knights 
and cavaliers vainly trying to move it. The armor 
was heavy and unwieldy, the man inside helpless, 
as the hinges in the armor over the knees had be- 
come rusty or caught in some way and would not 
bend. The unfortunate prisoner was Mr. William 
Black, whose portrait in this same armor was 
painted afterwards and now hangs in the Glas- 
gow Gallery. Mr. Macmillan, the London pub- 
lisher, took the Spanish Lady to supper, which was 
served at small tables. Mr. Macmillan had selected 
for his costume the simple one of a white linen coat, 
white apron, and cap of a chef. Unfortunately the 
make-up was so realistic that it came dangerously 
near to his undoing. 

Mr. Macmillan, having secured a small table and 
an unopened bottle of champagne, went in quest of 
sweetbreads and truffles. Almost instantly a man in 
the garb of a monk, with a slight bow to the lady 
in waiting, took the champagne to a table near by, 
where a party of four much enjoyed it. Mr. Mac- 
millan returned, with his sweetbreads and truffles, 
and went again in quest of champagne. The room 
was very crowded, and it was with difficulty that a 
guest could get near to the serving- table ; but by a 
strategic movement Mr. Macmillan was returning 
victorious, when a Troubadour barred his progress. 




WILLIAM BLACK 

PAINTED BY JOHN PETTIE, R.A. 
1877 



CROWDING MEMORIES 235 

and with scant ceremony reached forth his hand 
and said, **I will take that bottle" — and took it, 
leaving Mr. Macmiilan in such a paralyzed state 
that before he recovered motion the Troubadour was 
lost in the crowd. The third attempt was successful, 
and the wine brought in triumph to the table where 
the sweetbreads and truffles had become quite cold. 
Mr. Macmiilan had poured a glass of the sparkling 
beverage for the Spanish Lady, and was about to 
pour one for himself, when two beings from opposite 
sides of the room, Faust and King Charles, by their 
dress, advanced quickly and said in one breath — 
"Give me that bottle." King Charles, begging par- 
don of Faust, said, "I have the first claim." Faust 
replied, ''I beg your pardon, I spoke first." There- 
upon a heated discussion was ushered in, until 
Mr. Macmiilan said, with firm determination in his 
tone, "Gentlemen, you will neither one of you have 
this bottle" — whereupon the battle became two 
against one, the Scholar and the King making com- 
mon cause. The surprise of the listeners was extreme 
when the King said: "How dare you speak to a 
gentleman in that tone? Go back to the kitchen 
where you belong. You must be drunk. I shall re- 
port you to Mr. Boughton." The cook's cap and 
apron were too realistic, and notwithstanding apol- 
ogies and explanations, Mr. Macmiilan was much 
depressed for the rest of the evening. 



236 CROWDING MEMORIES 



BAYARD TAYLOR 

In other years — lost youth's enchanted years, 
Seen now, and evermore, through bHnding tears 
And empty longing for what may not be — 
The Desert gave him back to us; the Sea 
Yielded him up; the icy Norland strand 
Lured him not long, nor that soft German air 
He loved could keep him. Ever his own land 
Fettered his heart and brought him back again. 
What sounds are these of farewell and despair 
Borne on the winds across the wintry main ! 
What unknown way is this that he has gone, 
Our Bayard, in such silence and alone? 
What dark new quest has tempted him once more 
To leave us? Vainly, standing by the shore, 
We strain our eyes. But patience! WTien the soft 
Spring gales are blowing over Cedarcroft, 
Whitening the hawthorn; when the violets bloom 
Along the Brandywine, and overhead 
The sky is blue as Italy's, he will come . . . 
In the wind's whisper, in the swaying pine, 
In song of bird and blossoming of vine. 
And all fair things he loved ere he was dead ! 



CHAPTER XX 

WE had been much impressed, on a previous 
visit to Europe, in witnessing a foretaste of 
the formalities prescribed when Royalty descends 
from its heights to visit a subject of its kingdom. It 
was in the small village of Inverary, the Highland 
headquarters of the Duke of Argyll. Queen Victoria 
had signified her august intention of visiting there 
the Duke of Argyll. The Marquis of Lome had 
married Princess Louise, the fourth daughter of the 
Queen. The prestige of the Argyll family in their 
own land was well shown in the remark of a High- 
lander on hearing the news of that engagement: 
"Aye, the Queen '11 be a prood leddy the day! " 

The Castle stands in a wooded park noted for the 
beauty of its trees. On the smooth green lawn in 
front of the entrance gate were drawn up in militant 
form a large company of men clothed with great 
diversity of costume. Some were in Scottish kilts, 
some in blue cotton blouses, some with hats, and 
some without. Their armament was as peculiar as 
their dress, consisting of sticks that looked like 
broomsticks minus the brooms — but with their 
aid the crazy infantry "presented arms" and 
"grounded arms" with stoical exactness. We stood 



238 CROWDING MEMORIES 

for a long time watching these incomprehensible 
manipulations, and vainly trying to bribe the Censor 
to allow us to pass nearer to the Castle gates. On 
our return to the "Argyll Arms," our host, with ex- 
ultant pride, told of the expected visit of the Queen, 
and that the "awkward squad " were the retainers 
of the Duke, in daily practice to receive Her Maj- 
esty with fitting honors. 

Two years after this Scottish episode, we read on 
the folded yellow leaf of paper laid at our places 
on the long table in the dining-saloon of a Cunard 
steamer: 

LIST OF 
SALOON PASSENGERS 

per R.M.S. "Scythia" May 24, for New York. [1879] 
His Grace the Duke of Argyll 

and man servant 
Lord Walter Campbell 

and man servant 
Lady Elizabeth Campbell 
Lady Mary Campbell 

and maid servant 

Great was our interest in this reading, and strong 
was our hope — but most doubtful were we of Its 
realization — that the distinguished party might 
come to the dining-saloon, and that we might gaze, 
even from afar, on their table. The weather on the 
voyage was most propitious — calm seas and blue 
skies. On the second day after leaving Queenstown, 



CROWDING MEMORIES 239 

two adventurous mariners were pacing the deck 
when they were joined by Lord Walter Campbell, 
who, in introducing himself, said, "My father begs 
the honor of an introduction to Mrs. Aldrich "!!! 

It was with fear and trembling the lady waited 
until the Duke came up and was presented. His first 
remark was not flattering, but it put her quite at 
her ease, in showing that it was not herself that the 
honor of the introduction was asked for — but her 
hat, the yellow bird that alighted thereupon having 
so much interested the Duke that he was desirous 
of its name and further knowledge of its habits. 

The owners of the yellow bird expressed their 
true belief that outside the rue de la Paix there had 
never been such a bird on sea or land. When the 
laughter induced by the "origin of the species " had 
ceased, formality had blown itself skyward, and the 
remaining days at sea were days of delightful com- 
panionship. 

The Duke of Argyll was at this time fifty-eight 
years old, his whole appearance indicative of energy 
and vivacity. His face was a striking and intellectual 
one. " He was a bom leader of men, by virtue not 
only of an earldom dating back before the discovery 
of America, and by virtue of leadership of a clan 
eight centuries old, but also by great talents and 
natural force and breadth of intellect." 

In coming on deck in the morning, we were reason- 



240 CROWDING MEMORIES 

ably sure of finding "His Grace," snugly ensconced 
in our wraps, and his book, in one of our steamer 
chairs. After the first salutation he would say, 
*'Pray, go and have your smoke, Mr. Aldrich, and 
leave your chair to me." And as the "Lady Nico- 
tine" had always been the only rival in Mr. Aldrich's 
time and affection, the release would be gladly 
accepted, and for the hour or two following there 
would be delightful talk of books and men, poets 
and authors, interspersed with glimpses of the 
crowded and varied London life. At first, for his 
listener, there were grave difficulties as to the proper 
place and kind of title to use in addressing the 
speaker. Several times in the interest and warmth 
of discussion, the Listener so far forgot the cere- 
monial rules of polite society as to say, ''Mr. Ar- 
gyll " !! With much humiliation, pardon was begged, 
and further instruction asked as to the form and 
titles that might be used. Bewildering, I think 
to both, was the Duke's answer. Well remem- 
bered is the leisurely way he reclined in the 
long chair, the gray fog shutting out the horizon, 
as slowly he enumerated, one by one, his many 
aliases, and laughingly offered the choice of one, or 
all: Sir George Douglas Campbell, K.T.P.C.; Mar- 
quis of Lome ; Duke, Marquis, and Earl, of Argyll ; 
Lord Hamilton in the peerage of England; Lord 
Lieutenant, Hereditary Sheriff of County Argyll; 



CROWDING MEMORIES 241 

Earl of Campbell and Cowal; Viscount Lochen; 
Baron Sundridge of Corm ; Lord of Inverary ; Master 
of the Queen's Household and Keeper of the Red 
Seal of Scotland; Admiral of the Western Isles; 
Keeper of Dunoon Castle, etc., and ^'Mr. Argyll"!! 

There lingers delightfully in memory one feature 
of the voyage on this "Ocean Sea" — the shrill 
musical cry of the bagpipes at sundown and morn- 
ing, the picturesque figure of the piper in his tartan 
plaid and kilts. In fancy, I hear again a voice saying : 
" I could not explain, nor could you understand, the 
emotion, the passion, the sound of the pipes awakens. 
Love, family, life, ambition, joy, sorrow — all are 
epitomized in that mellifluent cry. I am taking the 
pipes to my son and my daughter in Canada; they 
will hear in its tones the spirit of Home." 

Mr. Aldrich, on coming down to his cabin a few 
days before the arrival in New York, saw Niobe all 
tears, sitting on the steamer trunk, the cause of the 
tears being that the great Duke had announced his 
pleasant wish of being invited to Ponkapog for a 
visit!! The wish was received with consternation 
and a hurried retreat to solitude, to devise what im- 
pediment could be laid in the pathway. In this one 
instance Niobe found no champion for her cause in 
Mr. Aldrich. With true, democratic, American inde- 
pendence, he refused to see the enormous contrast 
of the small brown house of Ponkapog Village and 



242 CROWDING MEMORIES 

the vast masonry of Inverary Castle. Vainly was the 
practising infantry on the lawn marched before him 
— he refused to surrender or lower his colors. It was 
not until mention was made of the lord-in-waiting, 
the gentleman of the bedchamber, the man servant, 
that hospitality waned and a temporary truce was 
declared. 

When the voyage was nearing the end, the Scythia 
slowing up for the health officer to come aboard, one 
of the fellow passengers approached, with hat in 
hand, and bowing low to the Duke, said: ''Your 
Grace, the custom-house officers will soon be here; 
they will be in the dining-saloon at the head of the 
long table. If you will go at once and take your 
place, you will not have to wait so long in making 
your declaration." The fine courtesy with which the 
Duke thanked the stranger for this entirely super- 
fluous advice, and the satisfied smile of benefit con- 
ferred, with which the stranger turned, are not for- 
gettable. The Government had sent a special boat 
and the luggage was then being transferred. 

The news of the arrival of the ducal party had 
been much heralded. New York Harbor was gay 
with every variety of boats and sailing craft, flags 
flying, whistles blowing, in deafening welcome. A 
few of the Duke's friends, with many city officials, 
under the guidance of the Collector of the Port, 
steamed down in the custom-house boat. Mr. P. T. 



CROWDING MEMORIES 243 

Barnum had asked the favor of being Included in 
the number, as he greatly desired to meet his wife, 
who was a passenger on the incoming steamer. The 
enterprising showman was the first on board and 
asked to have the Duke pointed out to him. The 
Duke was standing by the rail, talking with the 
owners of "the yellow bird," his back to the ap- 
proaching visitor. Suddenly he was conscious of a 
vigorous slap on the ducal shoulder, and a stentorian 
voice rang in his ear: "Well, how are you, Duke? 
Welcome, welcome, Duke, to our glorious country! " 
Then ensued a transformation scene more sudden 
and surprising than that of any moving picture that 
has ever been or will be. Mr. Cabot Lodge, in his 
most interesting book, "Early Memories," writing 
of the Duke of Argyll, says, " He had very light red 
hair, which seemed to be flaring up from his head, 
and I remember Mr. Story saying that he looked 
like a lucifer match just ignited." The blow on the 
shoulder was the lighting of the lucifer match. Its 
fire burnt and shrivelled to ashes the daring offender. 
It was a wordless battle. When it was over, the 
thread of the sentence, that had been dropped for 
the moment, was picked up again. Nothing was said 
of the encounter, but one could feel the white heat 
of the fray. 

In the informal days on shipboard the acquaint- 
ance had ripened into a warm friendship ; the invi- 



244 CROWDING MEMORIES 

tation was given that the next time the sea was 
crossed, there should be a visit to the Castle, and 
this time there would be no need to bribe the Censor 
to open wide its gates. The sound of the chain as the 
anchor was lowered and the pulsation of the engine 
ceased brought to the three who listened a real re- 
gret that the pleasant hours of companionship had 
come to an end. 

The "extras" and evening papers of that day an- 
nounced: "The Scythia arrived at the dock between 
three and four o'clock. Taking a carriage soon after 
five o'clock, the Duke and his son drove down Fifth 
Avenue and Broadway to Brentano's, in Union 
Square. The Duke called for the American edition 
of his book, 'The Reign of Law,' and praised its 
appearance." 

The next morning's mail brought to Ponkapog 
the following letter: 

" New York, June 3, 1879 

"Dear Mrs. Aldrich: 

" I have just had time to go to a bookseller whose 
shop was known to my son, and I at once found a 
copy of my book 'The Reign of Law,' with a photo 
of myself which I had not before seen. It is an Amer- 
ican edition, and the back is, I am sorry to say, a 
little shabby. But you must excuse this and kindly 
accept it in remembrance of the pleasant conversa- 



CROWDING MEMORIES 245 

tions I had with you on the passage out. I am much 
struck with the handsomeness of New York. But I 
must proceed as fast as I can to Niagara. 
"I hope you found the twins quite well. 

"Yours, 

"Argyll." 

Mr. Greenslet, in his "Life of Thomas Bailey 
Aldrich," wrote: "With the beginning of 1881 came 
another event that marked an epoch in the smooth- 
flowing stream of Aldrich's life. Mr. Howells, who 
as assistant editor and editor, had wielded the tri- 
dent of the ruler of the ' Atlantic ' for fifteen years, 
wearied a little of the toil, and resigned his post. 
Immediately thereupon the natural thing happened, 
and our poet, who had long before won his editorial 
spurs, and who had been for a score of years one of 
the 'Atlantic's' most important contributors, was 
appointed to fill that distinguished 'seat of the 
scomer.' " Miss Francis, Aldrich's assistant for the 
nine years of his editorship, draws a pen portrait 
very true to life: "To work with him was usually 
a most agreeable experience, but as to accomplish- 
ment, it had its disadvantages. It was likely to re- 
mind him of something much more interesting — 
some bit of autobiography, oftenest an anecdote of 
his early life, which led to another and yet another. 
Ah, if it could be possible to put that desultory talk, 



246 CROWDING MEMORIES 

vivid narration, scintillating humor, into cold type, 
it would leave any tale he ever told with pen and ink 
far behind." 

In the same year and month that Mr. Aldrich 
succeeded Mr. Howells in the editorial chair of the 
"Atlantic," Boston had a new sensation in the ar- 
rival of Mr. Oscar Wilde. In a note to Mr. Aldrich, 
Mr. Stedman said : ' ' This Philistine town [New York] 
is making a fool of itself over Oscar Wilde, who is 
lecturing on Art Subjects, appearing in public in 
an extraordinary dress — a loose shirt with a turn- 
down collar, a flowing tie of uncommon shade, vel- 
vet coat, knee-breeches — and often he is seen in 
public carrying a lily, or a sunflower, in his hand. 
He has brought hundreds of letters of introduc- 
tion." 

On Mr. Wilde's first night in Boston, "A number 
of Harvard students dressed up in a burlesque of the 
aesthetic costume. The masqueraders waited until 
Oscar Wilde had stepped upon the platform, and 
then trooped in, in single file, each assuming a de- 
meanor more absurd than that of the man who pre- 
ceded him. There were sixty youths in the proces- 
sion, and all were dressed in swallow-tail coats, 
knee-breeches, flowing wigs and green ties. They all 
wore large lilies in their buttonholes, and each man 
carried a huge sunflower as he limped along. Sixty 
front seats had been reserved for the Harvard con- 



CROWDING MEMORIES 247 

tingent, and it was amidst shouts of laughter that 
they filed into their places." 

During the stay of Mr. Wilde in Boston, Mr. 
Aldrich lived in strict seclusion. No invitations to 
dinners, receptions, or lunches were accepted, on 
the chance that this prodigious poseur might also be 
a guest. It was not until the end of a year that we 
came upon Mr. Wilde, suddenly, and met face to 
face. We had been in Europe all summer, and some- 
thing of the aesthetic movement that was then agi- 
tating England might be observed in the costume 
of one of the returning pilgrims, whose dress con- 
sisted of a soft brown camel's-hair gown, long cir- 
cular cloak of the same peculiar shade, with smocked 
yoke, large beaver hat, Gainsborough in shape, with 
floating, drooping plumes. Among the innumerable 
souvenirs of travel that had been bought for the 
jocund sprites, were two bisque, slender, green- 
tinted vases. Each vase held a red and a pink China 
rose, which stood out from the receptacle in bold 
relief. The jocund sprites had taken these treasures 
from the box that enclosed them, and, in the hurry 
of getting to the train, each carried his vase in his 
hand. And as the sprites, in dress and features, 
could have stood for Millais's picture of ''The Young 
Princes in the Tower," the waiting group on the 
platform attracted more attention than was de- 
sirable. 



248 CROWDING MEMORIES 

There were no empty seats on the incoming car 
excepting the lengthwise one at the door and one 
seat on the same side, facing it, on the half of which 
seat sat a man clothed in singular fashion. He was 
wearing a light-brown velvet coat, a waistcoat of 
yellowish silk, blue tie and stockings, low brown 
shoes, and lemon-colored gloves. The hat was large 
and of a different shade of brown, and from under 
it the straight hair reached almost to the shoulder. 
The wearer of this strange costume slowly moved a 
green morocco bag, which evidently had served as 
a retainer for the seat, and with a bow yielded to 
the one who waited her moiety or share. 

The sprites with their China roses in their hands, 
the pilgrim with her drooping plumes, and the 
stranger with the unusual dress, made a quartette 
so remarkable that it was not to be wondered that 
they became the attraction for all eyes, not only 
in that car, but of passengers in the other cars con- 
tinually walking through. 

The train was an accommodation one and stopped 
at many way stations. At each there seemed to be a 
crowd on the platform who, the moment the train 
slowed up, would spring onto the steps and gaze 
into the car. Mr. Aldrich was riding in the smoking- 
car and oblivious of this scenic effect. It was not 
until the train had made many miles that a sufferer 
arose, and, following the conductor, asked if he 



CROWDING MEMORIES 249 

knew why the people behaved in this unpleasantly 
rude way. 

Surprisingly unexpected was his answer: "Oh, I 
suspect it is just curiosity to look at Oscar Wilde " ! ! ! 
What a gloomy, tingling sensation these words pro- 
duced, for all the curious gazers must have thought 
that Mr. Wilde was travelling en famille. If wishes 
could have dashed and shattered to atoms China 
red and pink roses, the jocund sprites would have 
arrived at their journey's end with empty hands — 
no bangs, and — long trousers ! The question is still 
unanswered, as to what Oscar Wilde's feelings may 
have been toward this Bunthorne group. 

Some years after this chance encounter, Mr. 
Aldrich met Mr. Wilde and his wife, on the stage of 
the Lyceum Theatre. Mr. Irving was giving a sup- 
per for apparently all the critics and distinguished 
men and women of his city. The notes of invitation 
had requested that the guests should remain in the 
stalls after the lowering of the final curtain. As the 
audience that were not invited to the feast filed 
out the atmosphere seemed filled with the electric- 
ity that was always an accompaniment of a "first 
night" at the Lyceum Theatre. In an incredibly 
short time the curtain was raised, disclosing what 
seemed to be a marble hall in a ducal palace. A long 
table ran the entire width of the stage, with wings 
at the sides extending almost to the footlights. Mr. 



250 CROWDING MEMORIES 

Irving, in evening dress, and Miss Terry, in volu- 
minous robes of white, advanced to the red carpeted 
steps that temporarily made the uprising from the 
parquet to the stars an easy ascension. Mr. Bram 
Stoker introduced Mr. Wilde, who kindly acted as 
Herald as the different personages came in sight, 
fitting names and characters in concise and lucid 
ways. 

Mr. Wilde had dropped his masquerade, discarded 
his unwise and foolish attitude, and never assumed 
it again. He wore the conventional dress based on 
accepted rules, and in no outward ways differed 
from his fellow-men. Mrs. Wilde was pretty, and 
young. She wore a canary-colored gown, so modish 
that probably it was "created " on the other side of 
the Channel. At this time Mr. and Mrs. Wilde must 
have been almost bride and groom. They gave the 
impression of congenial companionship and happi- 
ness. 

Vividly to my memory comes another evening at 
the Lyceum. Mr. Irving had invited Mr. Aldrich to 
the play, and to supper afterwards at the Beefsteak 
Room, to meet Madame Bernhardt, who, when in 
London, was a frequent guest at these meetings on 
the historic ground of what had once been the old 
"Beefsteak Club Room." 

Mr. Irving's box at the theatre was on the stalls' 
level. It had a special door which was approached 



CROWDING MEMORIES 251 

from the stage. In the intervening years that have 
passed since that happy night, the name of the play 
has sHpped beyond recall, but the unrivalled interest 
remains of the slight opening of the door, and Mr. 
Irving's tall figure, arrayed in all his stage grandeur, 
beckoning his guests to come out for a minute that 
he might speak to them. The rich costume, this un- 
familiar accoutrement of the stage, produced, in one 
of his surprised guests, a strange shyness. The in- 
stantaneous thought that flitted through her mind 
being, was it possible that she had once dared to tell 
this sumptuous splendor "to eat his mushrooms 
before they became quite cold"? 

At the fall of the final curtain, Mr. Stoker came 
to the box to conduct Mr. Aldrich on his winding 
way. We descended a red-carpeted staircase, crossed 
the stage, ascended a twisting stair, passed through 
an armory filled with such a variety of weapons that 
it might have been the Tower of London in min- 
iature, and were ushered into a large wainscoted 
apartment. A few logs were burning in an antique 
fireplace, and drawn near to the blaze was a high- 
backed settee, on which Madame Bernhardt was 
half sitting, half reclining. She wore a white satin, 
decollete dress, which hung loose from the shoulder, 
where it was held in place by heavily encrusted 
jewelled clasps. The waist was loosely defined by a 
flexible girdle, made of large squares of gold, that 



252 CROWDING MEMORIES 

formed the massive setting of the precious stones 
that adorned it. The long ends of the girdle reached 
almost to her feet. 

Memories bring back to these later years the living 
picture of Sarah Bernhardt, as we first saw her in 
the Beefsteak Room of the Lyceum. The indefinable 
personality, the wondrous charm, the golden voice 
in which she greeted Mr. Aldrich — so perfect her 
acting and so kind her heart that it might be true 
or it might be false, "that his was a loved and fa- 
miliar name." There were many brilliant guests at 
supper that night. Extraordinarily vivid was Madame 
Bemhardt's description of a pantomime she had 
seen in London, and of the acting of Columbine and 
the peculiar manner her hair was worn, in small 
curls about her head. "It was like this," she said. 
With rapid fingers she separated the strands of her 
rather short hair and twisted it tight in innumerable 
spikes that stood out in bold relief all over her head, 
which after this realistic illustration she seemed to 
forget, as her coiffure remained dressed In this in- 
dividual fashion for the rest of the evening. 

It was delightful to see Madame Bernhardt and 
Miss Terry together, each so unlike, both equally 
fascinating. Madame Bernhardt had gone early in 
the evening to Miss Terry's dressing-room. Not 
finding her there, she had written on the white nap- 
kin of her toilet table, "Ellen Terry, my dearling," 



CROWDING MEMORIES 253 

that being as near as her French tongue could sur- 
mount the spelling of "darling." Miss Terry said she 
had cut the dear message out and should have it 
framed. "Fussy," Mr. Irving's little dog, was much 
in evidence that night at the supper, dividing his 
attentions with impartiality between the two queens 
of the feast, traversing over the table the distance 
that separated him from the strawberry ice-cream 
of Madame Bernhardt's plate and the "tutti-frutti " 
of Miss Terry's. The friendship between Fussy and 
his master was very intense, the companionship in- 
separable. And although Fussy was content to re- 
ceive the adulation of the entire theatrical company, 
his true allegiance was solely to Mr. Irving himself. 

On the first visit of Mr. Irving and his company 
to America, in the change from the train to the 
steamer at Southampton, Fussy disappeared, to 
the inconsolable agitation of his master, who was 
with great difficulty persuaded to go on board the 
steamer. Telegrams were sent in all directions, offer- 
ing large rewards, but they brought no answers. 

Three weeks passed without sign that Fussy still 
lived. On a night at the end of the third week, the 
keeper of the stage entrance of the Lyceum heard a 
faint whine at the closed door, which at first he dis- 
regarded; but as the low, plaintive cry continued, 
it aroused his interest, and opening the door, a poor 
bedraggled mite of a creature dragged itself in, a 



254 CROWDING MEMORIES 

wisp of a tail wagged, and the almost skeleton of 
what once had been a dog fell to the floor. The ex- 
pression of the eyes and the weak movement of the 
tail forced the recognition. It was Fussy. How had 
the poor little wasted being, thirsty and starved, 
the pampered darling of happy days, found its way 
on untravelled paths that lay between the stage 
door of London streets and the crowded pier of 
Southampton? 

It was of the same little dog that Mr. Irving, when 
he was told that the Star Theatre and all his effects 
were in danger of burning, asked first, "Is Fussy 
safe?" 



CHAPTER XXI 

TURN backward, O Time, in thy flight," and 
from the world of shadows bring again the 
group of men who played their part on the stage of 
Life that wintry day in 1887, when in the Boston 
Museum was held an "Authors' Reading," so called, 
the object of which was to raise money for a Long- 
fellow Memorial Fund. From the first inception of 
the idea it was hailed with zeal by the friends of 
Mr. Longfellow, the authors and poets, who for 
friendship's sake were glad to add their quota to- 
wards perpetuating his memory. Mr. Clemens had 
suggested that the price of the tickets should be 
five dollars. On the day of the "Reading" every 
seat in the Boston Museum was occupied, and in 
every available place the people stood wedged one 
against another, while the crowd still seeking ad- 
mission reached far out into the street. 

Before the rising of the curtain, when Mr. Aldrich, 
in much perturbation and genuine stage fright, ar- 
rived on the scene and saw the semicircle of chairs 
all of one pattern and one height, the mise en seine 
a reproduction of the stage as set for the perform- 
ance of Christy Minstrels with their darky jokes, 
songs and dances, he said to the assembled poets 



256 CROWDING MEMORIES 

programme. 

Professor Charles Eliot Norton will 

PRESIDE. 

1. Mr. Samuel L. Clemens. 

2. Mrs. Julia Ward Howe. 

3. Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes. 

4. Mr. George William Curtis. 

5. Mr. T. B. Aldrich. 

6. Hon. James Russell Lowell. 

7. Rev. Edward Everett Hale. 

8. Mr. W. D. Howells. 

9. Colonel T. W. Higginson. 

THE READINGS WILL BEGIN PRECISELY AT TWO O'CLOCK. 

and authors, he felt sure that In that environment 
the moment the curtain went up, involuntarily he 
should lean forward from his chair and address Hon. 
James Russell Lowell and Rev. Edward Hale in this 
wise: "Now, Breder Hale, when you prays, don't 
pray so much in general way; pray more perticler; 
if I prays de Lord to git me a turkey, dat ain't 
nothin' — I ain't agoin' to git dat turkey ; but when 
I prays de Lord to git me one of Massa John's 



CROWDING MEMORIES 257 

turkeys I knows I 'se gwine to git dat turkey 'fore 
Sat'dy night!" 

Mr. Aldrich was so obsessed with this idea, his 
nerves so strained and out of tune (having an un- 
conquerable terror of speaking before an audience), 
that it was felt he might almost do it and that it 
would be wise to send a hurried call to the property 
man. The uniform chairs were hustled away, sofas 
and seats of different form brought in, and the 
precise semicircle made carelessly irregular and 
casual. 

In an old and yellowing letter bearing the date of 
that afternoon, the writer of it says: "We were in 
time to see the footlights turned on and the curtain 
go up. Sitting in an irregular semicircle on the stage, 
some on chairs others on sofas, were the ten noted 
men including [Mrs.] Julia Ward Howe and the 
chairman. A small reading-stand, a large bunch 
of flowers, and a pitcher of water with the accom- 
panying goblet, was the only ornament (excepting 
Aldrich) on the stage." 

On that memorable afternoon Mr. Clemens was 
the first speaker. Professor Charles Eliot Norton 
said, "I am but as the Herald who proclaims the 
names of the heroes as they enter the lists"; then 
introduced Mr. Clemens with that felicity of word 
and phrase of which he was a master. As Mr. Clem- 
ens rose and came forward, loud and long was the 



258 CROWDING MEMORIES 

applause as he announced his subject, "English as 
She is Taught." 

Mr. Clemens was followed by Dr. Holmes. When 
he came forward the applause was most enthusiastic, 
unmistakably showing the affection with which he 
was regarded. Dr. Holmes read "The Chambered 
Nautilus," "Dorothy Q." — an English paper he 
said had spelled it "Cue," which would have been 
more appropriate if she had been a billiard player, 
or even an actress. 

Mrs. Julia Ward Howe was the next speaker ; she 
read "Her Orders" and "The Battle Hymn of the 
Republic." She wore a black velvet dress and a 
white cap, and as the martial music of her words fell 
on the listeners' ears she seemed like one inspired. 
Rev. Edward Everett Hale came next. My yellow- 
ing letter says: "His selection was good and appar- 
ently had been well practised. He is an odd-looking 
man and wears misfit clothes. His coat seemed to 
have more buttons than buttonholes, with some of 
the buttons doing double duty; his eyes are sunken 
and his hair grows in bunches, two of the bunches 
being over his eyes. Dr. Hale read ' The Great Har- 
vest Year.' Mr. George William Curtis read extracts 
from the 'Potiphar Papers.' " 

Mr. Norton said, in introducing Mr. Aldrich: 
'"There are two points,* says Mr. Browning, 'two 
points in the adventure of the diver: one when, as a 



CROWDING MEMORIES 259 

beggar he prepares to plunge, one when, a prince, 
he rises with a pearl.' I imagine myself that diver, 
but I am certain of my pearl." 

I quote again from my yellowing letter: "Then 
came Thomas Bailey Aldrich. While the show was 
in progress, Aldrich and Howells sat close together 
at the back and chatted occasionally. Aldrich sat 
stiff and prim as though he had called for the first 
time to pay attention to Mrs. Howe, who sat at his 
right, and was naturally bashful and nervous, while 
Howells sat on his back, his feet a yard and a quar- 
ter apart out in front of him, his hands in gray 
trousers pockets, and his head on the back of his 
chair. Aldrich does n't look more than thirty and 
Howells would pass easily for forty. Aldrich, when 
standing before the footlights, did n't seem to know 
what to do with his feet, and throughout his reading, 
which was very poor from an elocutionary stand- 
point, he was nervous in the extreme. I imagine that 
Longfellow only, and no amount of money, could 
drag him out to read in public. At any rate, he did 
not seem to relish the task, not even a little bit." 

Candor and truth unhappily compel me to allow 
that this description of Mr. Aldrich is realistically 
true, as he appeared when he was confronted by an 
audience. Of all the men who gave their voices on 
that day for this dear son of memory, I can well be- 
lieve that if a gift to be real must be a sacrifice, 



26o CROWDING MEMORIES 

Mr. Aldrich was the most generous giver. It was 
only the one who was nearest to him who could 
understand the heroism and warmth of friendship 
that brought and held him on that stage, or how 
erroneous would be the impression those, seeing him 
for the first time there, must form of a personality 
so unlike himself. 

In the everyday circumstances of life, Mr. William 
H. Rideing's pen portrait brings Mr. Aldrich to my 
love and memory in a way which no other written 
words have ever done; and it was thus he ever 
seemed to me: 

"It always seemed to me that Aldrich belonged 
to other times than our own, and that he had strayed 
like a traveller returned out of an earlier century. 
There was something of Herrick in him, something 
of Sir Philip Sidney, and something of Lovelace. At 
the latest he would have been at home in the age of 
Queen Anne, a sword and a cocked hat; ruffles of 
lace and a coat of lavender velvet, strapped with 
gold; a doublet of creamy satin, also frilled and 
embroidered; knee-breeches and silk hose would 
have become him better than the quiet clothes he 
always wore. Without swagger, he had the swing 
and gaiety of a Cavalier; a blithe heart and a habit 
of seeing things through the airy fancy and high re- 
solves of a still earlier gallantry, even the gallantry 
of a knight-errant riding through the forest of the 



CROWDING MEMORIES 261 

world with songs on his lips and a wit as nimble as 
his sword. His weapon was raillery: it flashed in the 
air and pricked without venom and without leaving 
any rankling wound. He literally laughed away 
those who crossed swords with him, and left them 
laughing too. His conversation was even better than 
his writings and like them was crisp, pointed, and 
inimitably and impressively whimsicaL It seemed to 
be impossible for him to say a commonplace thing 
or to say anything that did not end in some unex- 
pected turn to evoke the smiles or laughter of the 
listener. 

"Confident and even aggressive among intimates, 
he was incurably shy among strangers, especially 
in public gatherings of all kinds, and had a strong 
aversion to speech-making. I remember a great gar- 
den party given by Governor Claflin to celebrate 
one of the many birthdays of Harriet Beecher Stowe. 
Mr. Aldrich was expected to be one of the chief 
celebrants of the occasion, but he shunned the 
crowd and moved about the edge of it, until at last 
we found ourselves out of sight and hearing of it. 
The master of the ceremonies pursued him and dis- 
covered him like a truant school-boy. * Here, Aldrich, 
you must keep your end up ! Come on ! ' Aldrich was 
inarticulate, and as soon as his pursuer disappeared, 
flew with me for the station. Soon afterward, and 
long before the ceremonies had ended, we were at 



262 CROWDING MEMORIES 

his cottage on Lynn Terrace, not hearing speeches 
or making them, but Hstening to the breakers tum- 
bling against the rocks of that pleasant seaside 
retreat. I suspect that he realized his disgrace. It 
was not the consequence of any reluctance to do 
homage to Mrs. Stowe, but rather his unconquerable 
dislike of publicity." 

Colonel T. W. Higginson was the next speaker 
after Mr. Aldrich; he read delightfully his "Vaca- 
tion for Saints"; Mr. Howells read extracts from 
"Their Wedding Journey"; Mr. Lowell, Long- 
fellow's "Building of the Ship"; and in this wise 
ended one of the most notable entertainments ever 
given in Boston. 



CHAPTER XXII 

/"Now one by one the visions fly, \ 
' And one by one the voices die." .■ 

IT was in the summer of 1885, on a cruise on the 
Oneida, Mr. E. C. Benedict's yacht, that the 
conception by Mr. Booth of a Club for Actors took 
shape and crystallized. Lying fallow in his mind for 
some years had been the desire to do something 
tangible and enduring for his profession, but it was 
not until in the intimate companionship of the 
yacht's party — Lawrence Barrett, Parke God- 
win, Laurence Hutton, William Bispham, and Mr. 
Aldrich — that the idea of an Actors' Club was 
seriously discussed. 

"Mr. Aldrich with happy inspiration suggested 
the name, 'The Players.* Curiously enough, the 
whole thing was based upon the name. If Mr. 
Aldrich had not thought of a name before it was 
thought of itself, 'The Players,' perhaps, would 
never have existed." 

A year or two before the memorable cruise Mr. 
Booth had bought the fine old house, 29 Chestnut 
Street, Boston. This happy conjunction of near 
neighborhood united still closer the old comradeship 
of Booth and Aldrich, and it was an unusual day in 



264 CROWDING MEMORIES 

which the two friends did not meet. Many were the 
talks and plans and schemes, in front of the cosy 
fire in Mr. Booth's den, as to the ways and means of 
the Actors' Club that was to be, so that it was not 
surprising that when Mr. Booth's daughter married, 
Mr. Booth grew restless and impatient with desire 
that his plan should materialize. Shortly after the 
daughter's marriage, in a letter to Mr. Furness, 
Mr. Booth says: "At last my Boston house is empty, 
scrubbed, locked, the keys in the office of an agent 
who will sell the property for me, and I am here 
[Lynn] for a few days with Aldrich. 

"I coaxed him to take some buttermilk to-day, 
and he wryly remarked, ' It 's like kissing a baby ! ' 
Is n't that as good as Thackeray's remark about the 
American oyster?" 

On the last night of the year 1888 a scene of un- 
common beauty and significance was visible in a 
house in Gramercy Park. On that night, and just 
before the death of the old year, the members of 
The Players Club assembled for the first time and 
were formally installed in their home. It was nearly 
twelve o'clock when Mr. Booth, taking his place 
upon a dais in front of the hearthstone, formally 
addressed his associates, and in a brief speech, with 
gentle dignity and winning sweetness of manner, 
presented to them the title-deeds to their club- 
house, the building No. 16 Gramercy Park, which, 



CROWDING MEMORIES 265 

with its unique furniture, works of art and fine 
decorations, was his personal gift to the Club. No 
speech was ever in better taste, nor was there ever 
a good deed done with more grace, humility, and 
sweetness. In giving the Club to the Actors, Mr. 
Booth had made a home for the homeless and ever- 
travelling profession. This great benevolence crowned 
a life that was as full of benevolence as it was of 
grief and triumph. 

A few weeks before the opening of the Club, Mr. 
Booth had written to Mr. Oliver I. Lay: "I have 
heard that some of my friends among the Players 
desire to compliment me by placing a portrait of 
myself on the wall of the Club reading-room. On 
some other occasion I could not decline such a 
manifestation of good feeling, but under present 
circumstances, while the house is still my own, to 
be presented by me to others, I shrink from the in- 
delicacy I should be guilty of were I to permit any 
conspicuous portrait of myself to be exhibited. My 
friends may consider me morbidly sensitive on the 
subject: I may be so; but 't is my nature, and no 
effort of mine can overcome my aversion to any 
suggestion of self-glorification which a prominent 
portrait of myself on such an occasion would 
evince. . . .*' 

Two years later the members of the Club com- 
missioned Mr. Sargent to paint for the Club a por- 



266 CROWDING MEMORIES 

trait of their president. In a letter to his daughter 
Mr. Booth wrote: "Just as I packed my bag and 
was about starting for the station, Mr. Sargent 
called to say that he had word from the Art Com- 
mittee to paint my portrait for the Club. Of course, 
this is the only opportunity to have so distinguished 
an artist at me, consequently I yield to the annoy- 
ance of posing." 

In writing to a friend later, Mr. Booth said: 
/ "When I told Aldrich, he advised me to buy at once 
a piece of sand-paper, and inside locked doors to 
sand-paper my soul, for I might be assured that 
in this presentment of myself, all secret sins, or 
thoughts, would be dragged squirming to the light, 
and were liable to take precedence over the virtues 
when this master-hand wielded the brush. This pre- 
diction would have been verified if, after the second 
sitting, I had not said to Aldrich, ' I am disappointed 
in the picture, for if it is a true portrayal of myself, 
why, then I don't feel as I look.' Aldrich's advice 
was urgent, that as the picture was for succeeding 
generations of the Club, it was only justice to the 
artist that he should be told. Upon this cue I spoke. 
Mr. Sargent, apparently unconscious of my words, 
painted on for a few minutes and then said, 'Look 
now, and see if you like it any better.' The face 
on the canvas was entirely painted out, and with 
ready alacrity a new picture was begun." 



CROWDING MEMORIES 267 

Mr. Booth writes, in a letter to Mr. Bispham: 
" I think Sargent will make a great success with my 
portrait. It is unlike any I have seen of myself in 
regard to expression." 

SARGENT'S PORTRAIT OF EDWIN BOOTH AT 
THE PLAYERS 

That face which no man ever saw 
And from his memory banished quite, 
With eyes in which are Hamlet's awe 
And Cardinal Richelieu's subtle light, 
Looks from this frame. A master's hand 
Has set the master-player here, 
In the fair temple that he planned 
Not for himself. To us most dear 
This image of him! *' It was thus 
He looked; such pallor touched his cheek; 
With that same grace he greeted us — 
Nay, 't is the man, could it but speak! " 
Sad words that shall be said some day — 
Far fall the day ! O cruel Time, 
W^hose breath sweeps mortal things away, 
Spare long this image of his prime, 
That others, standing in the place 
Where, save as ghosts, we come no more, 
May know what sweet majestic face 
The gentle Prince of Players wore! 

Mr. Booth's professional life closed as it had be- 
gun, by chance. His last appearance was in Brook- 
lyn, in "Hamlet." As the curtain fell, the applause 
continued for a long time. The audience rose, and 
Booth was recalled again and again. On that night 



268 CROWDING MEMORIES 

his theatrical life ended without any formal farewell 
to the stage. For some time the periods of his en- 
gagements had grown shorter and shorter; little by 
little he had relaxed his grasp upon the stage. 

The last few years of Mr. Booth's life were passed 
mostly at The Players Club, in the rooms on the 
third floor reserved for him — and there he died, in 
the sixtieth year of his age. 

Two years before his death he had a slight stroke 
of paralysis; from that time his health gradually 
failed ; he knew the end of his earthly life was near, 
but he did not brood over it, and he did not fear it. 
He had often said with Hamlet, ''The readiness is 
all," and he was prepared to answer the summons 
whenever it might come. Nothing in his life was 
more beautiful than the spirit of resignation in 
which he accepted declining health, with its gath- 
ering shadows. 

In April, 1893, Mr. Booth had a second stroke, 
and from that hour he lingered until the night of 
June 7, when, soon after midnight, the brave and 
patient spirit made the dark voyage into the great 
unknown. On the night Edwin Booth was bom 
there was a great shower of meteors. At the hour 
when he lay dying, all the electric lights in The 
Players Club grew dim and went out. 

"Good-night, sweet Prince; 
And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest." 



CROWDING MEMORIES 269 



JUNE 7, 1893 

In narrow space, with Booth, lie housed in death 
lago, Hamlet, Shylock, Lear, Macbeth. 
If still they seem to walk the painted scene 
'T is but the ghosts of those that once have been. 



CHAPTER XXIII 

MR. GREENSLET writes that in the spring of 
1890, after nine years in the editorial chair, 
Aldrich concluded that the time had come to enjoy 
a larger leisure. Resigning the post to Horace Scud- 
der, who had often occupied it during his summers 
in Europe, he sailed for the East, free of all ties; and 
manuscripts and "make-up" troubled him no more. 
The memorabilia of these years are few. The 
Aldriches were abroad in the summers of 1890, 1891, 
and 1892. In the summer of 1893 they built "The 
Crags" at Tenants Harbor on the Maine coast, a 
summer place that the poet came to be immensely 
fond of. In the winter of 1894-95 they went around 
the world. In the winter of 1898-99 they went again 
around the world; and they were in Europe in the 
summer of 1900. Despite this far-darting travel and 
the zest with which he enjoyed his leisure, Aldrich's 
pen was far from idle. He wrote numerous short 
stories, and though he was continually affirming 
that he had written his last poem, the impulse was 
as continually revisiting him. These years saw the 
composition of such poems as "Elmwood," ''Un- 
guarded Gates," "Santo Domingo," and the "Shaw 
Memorial Ode." They saw, too, the successful stage 



CROWDING MEMORIES 271 

production of his drama "Mercedes" — his black 
little tragedy, as he always called it. Mr. Palmer, a 
New York manager, and an old friend, had often 
asked Mr. Aldrich to let him produce "Mercedes," 
but Mr. Aldrich, having the feelings of the poet 
about the play, invariably replied, "I wrote it, I 
love it, and I don't care to have it played." One 
day in Mr. Palmer's office he saw a photograph of 
a young actress, Julia Arthur, with a scarf thrown 
over her head. In the pictured face to his eye was 
visualized the Mercedes of his imagination. Mr. 
Aldrich asked who it was, and with Mr. Palmer's 
answer, "A young girl in our company," Mr. 
Aldrich said, "She could play Mercedes." Mr. 
Palmer with surprise asked, " Merely on the strength 
of that photograph would you be willing to have 
her?" Mr. Aldrich replied, "If you will cast her for 
the part you can produce the play." 

To Miss Arthur part and play opened new possi- 
bilities, and she could scarcely believe that she had 
been chosen to act the fiery Spanish peasant girl. 
She flung herself into the work, and when she had 
finally imagined and accomplished her disguise, 
even Mr. Palmer, in the darkened theatre where the 
rehearsal was about to begin, failed to recognize, in 
the brown, ear-ringed, lustrous-haired, and fiery- 
eyed Spanish girl, the Miss Arthur he had known in 
other parts. 



272 CROWDING MEMORIES 

The following note from Miss Arthur brings back 
from distant years, with startling clearness, the 
evening of the first dress rehearsal of the little 
tragedy : 

"The rehearsal was called at eight, but by six 
o'clock I was at my make-up table hard at work. 
When I was ready I went out to find Mr. Palmer, 
for I wanted him to see my make-up. The theatre 
was dark, but at last I found him, leaning his elbows 
on the rail behind the orchestra. I went up to him 
and said, * Is this all right? ' I was in the simplest of 
peasant costumes with a big comb in my hair, and 
stood with my hands on my hips. He looked at me 
for a moment and then said, * I gave orders to have 
the theatre closed. There is a rehearsal going on.* 
I stared at him, for I did n't know what he meant. 
My knees knocked together with nervousness, but 
I said again, 'Why, I just wanted to know if you 
think this will do.' He looked at me quickly, and 
then exclaimed, 'Good Lord, child! Is it you?' He 
thought I was one of the Italian women who came 
in to clean. When he had looked me well over, he 
took me to a box where Mr. and Mrs. Aldrich were 
sitting, and I was introduced just as I was, costume, 
make-up, and all. I was in a panic, for I had heard 
of Mr. Aldrich always as a great poet, and I was 
only a young girl working hard over the part and 
loving the role. All the company had talked to me 




JULIA ARTHUR 



CROWDING MEMORIES 273 

about the poet, and quoted his verses until I was so 
nervous at meeting him that I did n't know what to 
do. Mr. Aldrich took one look at me and then turned 
to his wife and said, *My Mercedes!'" 

The week preceding the first performance of the 
play had been unusually exacting with social and 
business engagements. All the time Mr. Aldrich felt 
he could give the New York visit would be to arrive 
late in the afternoon of the day, and leave on an 
early train the next morning. Mr. Palmer had re- 
served a box at the theatre for Mr. Aldrich, and a 
large contingent of his friends had signified their 
intention to be present at the first performance. The 
more intimate clientele had written they would call 
at the hotel soon after his arrival. The train was 
late. The sharer of the nervous hopes and fears 
hurriedly unpacked the small box containing the 
evening clothes, depositing Mr. Aldrich's share in 
his dressing-room, placing them with systematic 
care, that he might lose no time in enrobing, later in 
the day. As the last thing was taken from the box, 
the first visitor was announced. And when the last 
caller left, the time for dinner and to dress had been 
sadly encroached upon. That, added to the dis- 
covery that certain much-needed articles of fem- 
inine attire had been omitted by a careless maid in 
packing, threw something of gloom over the inter- 
mittent conversation that filtered through the half- 



274 CROWDING MEMORIES 

open door of the dressing-room. At the most im- 
portant moment in the arrangement of a coiffure, 
words were overheard that in spite of the hot curl- 
ing iron in the hand, sent a chill to the hearer: — 
' * Where are my trousers ! ! ! " 

With enforced calm the answer was given, "They 
are with the rest of the evening suit." 

There was silence for a moment, and then the 
voice said: " I have the pair on that was on the bed 
— but they drag on the floor a half of a yard, and 
for the want of several inches of cloth they won't 
meet at the waist. I think they must belong to the 
twins!!!" 

The hot iron grew cold in the holder's hand as 
she stood petrified, deprived even of thought. What 
could be done at that hour? A moment later the 
door of the dressing-room opened, and Mr. Aldrich 
came in dressed in the "pepper-and-salt" lounging 
suit he had worn on the train. Apparently all dis- 
appointment had slipped away and left only the 
desire that, for the one who cared most, the mis- 
fortune should be smoothed away and the enjoy- 
ment of the evening not spoiled by the unlucky 
accident. Mr. Aldrich was firm that he could not go 
to the theatre without evening dress; that it was 
disrespectful to his friends and his audience. At last 
the happy compromise was made, that he would go 
to the theatre with his pepper-and-salt trousers, the 



CROWDING MEMORIES 275 

rest of his body arrayed in evening splendor; that 
he should sit in the back of the box, the wraps on a 
chair making a screen to hide the defection of the 
conventional evening make-up. 

When at the end of the play the curtain was rung 
down, it was raised again and again in answer to the 
applause that greeted the little company of actors 
who had crystallized its success. Then came loud 
calls for "Author!" "Author!" "Curtain!" "Cur- 
tain!" followed by a sharp knock at the box door 
and the hurried message, "Mr. Palmer says Mr. 
Aldrich must come in front of the curtain." The 
calls of "Author!" "Author!" "Curtain!" "Cur- 
tain!" grew louder and louder, and the messenger 
returned to the box with the imperative word, " Mr. 
Palmer says for Mr. Aldrich to come at once." 

In this unfortunate and awkward dilemma, Mr. 
Aldrich stood with the chair as a screen between 
him and his cruel audience, bowing to the right and 
the left ; but this did not satisfy his uncomprehend- 
ing friends, who called louder and louder, "Author!" 
"Author!" "Curtain!" "Curtain!" "Speech!" 
"Speech!" 

The next morning's newspapers, in criticism and 
editorials, said: "It was much to be regretted that 
Mr. Aldrich had not spontaneously yielded to the 
flattering request to come before the curtain, in- 
stead of coldly bowing, at the back of a stage box." 



276 CROWDING MEMORIES 

But added, in extenuation of the misdemeanor, 
" Perhaps it is the cool conservatism of Boston that 
restrained him." 

From the blur of the closing years of the century 
a few incidents rise up from vague and indefinite 
memories, and stand out vivid and unconfused from 
the rest. Very clear is an evening at the country 
home of Mr. and Mrs. Whitelaw Reid. The "week- 
end" company numbered some twenty or thirty 
guests, among whom Mr. Aldrich and Mr. Chauncey 
M. Depew were conspicuous members. Mr. Depew 
had been known for years as a wit and a brilliant 
after-dinner speaker — and he brooked no rival 
near his throne. Unconsciously Mr. Aldrich had 
somewhat usurped his wonted place, and at dinner 
that night the charm of his conversation and his 
happy humor had centred the interest of the table 
talk upon himself. 

It was after the dinner was over and the company 
adjourned to the large hall for coffee and cigars that 
the "Lost Leader " boldly took the field, unmindful 
of the disasters that might follow. Mr. Greenslet 
says all his life long Mr. Aldrich had been uttering 
good things as copious and as unconcerned as the 
bubbles that rise in an effervescent spring. Now he 
was a little nearer the footlights, and his sayings 
began to be more widely repeated, and men began 
to tell of his whimsicalities at the clubs of New York 



CROWDING MEMORIES 277 

and the dinner-tables at Washington. But unfor- 
tunately for Mr. Depew, he underestimated the 
weapon of his unconscious rival who had taken 
precedence. 

As soon as the coffee was served and the guests 
seated in a semicircle about the blazing logs in the 
large hall, Mr. Depew rose, and facing Mr. Aldrich, 
said, ''You are from Boston, I believe, Mr. Aldrich; 
and is this your favorite bit of verse? 

'"rm from good old Boston, 

The home of the bean and the cod, 
Where the Cabots speak only to Lowells, 
And the Lowells speak only to God.' " 

And then followed an after-dinner speech in Mr. 
Depew's most brilliant vein, but full of little thorns 
and pin-pricks directed to the blond young man 
who had taken from the elder his hitherto unques- 
tioned right of being first. When the end came, 
amid shouts of laughter, the apparent victor with 
triumphant smile relighted his cigar. 

Mr. Aldrich slowly walked to the high fireplace, 
flicked the ashes from his cigarette, and turning to- 
wards Mr. Depew began speaking, constantly in- 
terrupted by laughter that would cease for the 
moment, to break out again with renewed vigor. 
His weapon was raillery. It flashed in the air and 
pricked without venom. Dr. Holmes once said of 
Mr. Aldrich, "You have only to touch him — he 



278 CROWDING MEMORIES 

goes off like a Roman candle." Mr. Depew had 
touched him, and to Mr. Depew's cost he went off. 

At the finish Mr. Aldrich bowed to Mr. Depew 
and sauntered back to his chair. For a moment there 
was silence, which was broken in upon by Mr. 
Reid's voice, saying, "Sneeze, Chauncey, your head 
is off." The next morning Mr. Depew returned to 
New York. 

After Mr. Aldrich relinquished the editorship of 
the "Atlantic Monthly," in writing to a friend he 
said, "I am so happy these days that I half sus- 
pect some calamity lurking round the corner." The 
calamity was not long to be deferred. It came in the 
death of the Honorable Henry L. Pierce, his closest 
friend for more than a quarter of a century. In a 
letter to Mr. Gilder, Mr. Aldrich writes: "I suppose 
that Woodberry has told you what a sad and anxious 
household we have here. Mr. Pierce came in from 
Milton a week ago last Thursday to pass three or 
four days with us, intending to go to New York on 
Tuesday. On Monday morning he had a stroke of 
paralysis, and has ever since been lying helpless in 
our house. His situation is very serious. For nearly 
twenty-five years he has been one of the most loved 
of guests at our fireside, and it takes all our fortitude 
to face the fact that that wise and gentle and noble 
heart has come to us for the last time. ..." 

The deep and unaffected friendship that existed 




THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH 



CROWDING MEMORIES 279 

between Mr. Aldrich and Mr. Pierce was most un- 
usual. "Each by turns was guide to each." They 
shared the mutual interests of two very distinct 
lives, and the varied interests of one were vital to 
the other. For the quarter of a century in which 
they were together, it was exceptional (if they were 
in the same city) if a day passed in which they did 
not meet; and after Mr. Pierce's death the miser- 
able feeling of loneliness changed for a long time 
Mr. Aldrich's world. 

Mr. Pierce was a Member of Congress, twice 
Mayor of Boston, and although in later years de- 
clining public office, he still retained great influence 
in political matters. He was a citizen whom the 
people of his city delighted to honor. At his death 
the City Hall was closed during the hours of his 
funeral and the flag placed at half-mast. The Rever- 
end L. F. Munger gave at the service this brief and 
true summary of this most lovely nature: "I found 
in him what only a few have thoroughly known, 
an utmost delicacy of mind so deep within him. 
It showed itself in a feeling for nature, a sense of 
mystery under the sky at night, a reverence before 
things great, a tenderness and chivalry that was 
almost ideal. But these were not the obvious marks 
of his character — more marked was a general 
strength and positiveness that ran throughout his 
entire nature. He was in all ways a strong man. 



28o CROWDING MEMORIES 

Strong in will even to obstinacy, strong in his sense 
of honor, strong in his love for his friends, strong 
in his sympathies, strong in his patriotism, strong 
in his likes and his dislikes. To those who knew him 
best there was a certain charming simplicity in his 
character due to the fact that it was the clear and 
direct product of his nature, unhelped by outside 
influences." 

The leading newspaper of the city in writing of 
his death said: "Ke was a citizen whom the people 
delighted to honor. His public and private life was 
stainless, and not in a long time has there been 
known such generous remembrances of public in- 
stitutions and charities as in the provisions of his 
will." Mr. Pierce left to Harvard the largest bequest 
that up to that time the College had ever received. 
The Museum of Fine Arts, the Institute of Tech- 
nology, the Massachusetts General Hospital, and 
the Homoeopathic Hospital, were also left like be- 
quests. 

"... Little did he crave 
Men's praises; modestly, with kindly mirth 
Not sad nor bitter, he accepted fate — 
Drank deep of life, knew books, and hearts of men, 
Cities and camps and war's immortal woe, 
Yet bore through all (such virtue in him sate 
His spirit is not whiter now than then) 
A simple, loyal nature pure as snow." 



CHAPTER XXIV 

OF these last years Mr. Greenslet writes: "The 
end of the century and of the happy post- 
meridianal decade of Aldrich's life came together. 
Fate, that seldom fails to balance a man's account, 
was preparing to collect heavy arrears of sorrow. 
On Christmas Day, 1900, the elder of the twin 
sons was married." This marriage brought to Mr. 
Aldrich anticipations of great happiness — antici- 
pations doomed to great disappointment. The ac- 
quaintance preceding the marriage was short, but 
the spirit in which Mr. Aldrich welcomed the en- 
gagement is well shown in the lines written under 
a photograph of the bride's little girl : 

She became our grand-daughter 
November 13, igoo. 

Black shadows should have tolled the bells on this 
wedding day. 

Mr. Greenslet has so graphically described the 
incidents of the next years that the following ex- 
tracts are from his pen : 

" In the early summer of 1901 the Aldriches sailed 
for England to spend some months on the Devon 
coast. On their return they were met at the wharf 



282 CROWDING MEMORIES 

by a message telling them that their married son, 
whose letter received just as they were sailing from 
Liverpool, announced his intention to welcome them 
at the pier, had been smitten with a sudden hemor- 
rhage of the lungs and had been hurried to the 
Adirondacks. They hastened to his side, and for a 
time he seemed^ better. There amid the mountains 
for two years and a half the fight went on with 
alternate seasons of hope and sad certainty. Only 
Mr. Aldrich's intimates know how tragical was his 
grief in these cruel years. Before the world he con- 
trived for the most part to maintain a brave cheer- 
fulness, and through his correspondence runs a val- 
iant humor that touches with poignant pathos the 
hearts of those who know what lay behind. 

"The story of the earlier months at Saranac will 
best be told in his own words: *We are very pleas- 
antly settled, and like the quiet life here. We are 
on the edge of the village, with the mountains for 
our immediate neighbors. Our house, a new and 
spacious villa, stands on a plateau overlooking 
Saranac River. Two or three hundred yards away, 
at our feet, is the cottage in which Stevenson spent 
the winter of '87. The sunsets and the sunrises com- 
pensate one for the solitude which moreover has a 
charm of its own. ... It snows nearly all the time 
in a sort of unconscious way — every window frame 
a picture of bewildering and capricious loveliness. 



CROWDING MEMORIES 283 

If our dear boy only continues to gather strength we 
shall have a happy winter in this little pocket Swit- 
zerland. He is very thin and white and feeble — at 
times I have to turn my eyes away, but my heart 
keeps looking at him.' 

"As the year of 1903 drew to an end the hope 
that had from time to time lighted our poet's heart 
grew fainter. Writing to Mr. E. L. Burlingame, who 
had made him a flattering offer for some articles to 
be written, he had said — 'If anything should hap- 
pen to my boy I 'd never again set pen to paper. If 
the task were begun it would be left unfinished.' It 
was never even begun ! The holidays came and went 
and the gentle life that was so dear to him flickered 
to its close. 

"On March 6, 1904, Charles Frost Aldrich 
died. By this death, which involved more elements 
of tragedy than the mere pathos of mortality, the 
settled happiness of Aldrich's life was shattered. His 
literary faculty was shrivelled by it as by a touch of 
evil magic, and though he regained in time, to the 
superficial eye, something of the old airy joyousness, 
his intimates understood the brooding sorrow that 
lay underneath. Even in cheerier hours among his 
friends the old whimsical flow of happy life was 
poisoned at its source. Now and again his genial 
glow would come briefly back, but never with the 
old unquenchable fire; and often in the full current 



284 CROWDING MEMORIES 

of his talk he would fall suddenly silent and his face 
would be darkened by the shadow of his grief. 

"The summer after Mr. Aldrich's son's death was 
spent at York Harbor. The familiar places of Ponka- 
pog and ' The Crags * were too much crowded with 
ghosts and memories for readjustment from the 
old life to the new. Happily for Mr. Aldrich, he 
became interested in rewriting for Miss O'Neil his 
narrative poem of 'Judith and Holof ernes,' chang- 
ing it into the tragedy of 'Judith of Bethulia.' The 
play was produced with success at the Tremont 
Theatre. 

" The next summer was spent in cruising along 
the coast in his son's yacht, the Bethulia; and in the 
winter Mr. Aldrich went to Egypt, where in Cairo 
a great happiness came to him, in the engagement 
of his surviving son. 'She is young — just twenty,* 
Aldrich wrote; 'I shall have lovely days with her. 
The marriage took place in June. All the Virtues 
attendant upon her pealed the wedding bells.' " 

With this marriage the acute pain of the preced- 
ent years lessened somewhat — the broken square 
enclosed again. A daughter sat in the place of the 
absent son, with her youth and beauty giving back 
something of the cheer of happier days. With calm 
serenity the twisted cord of life was taken up — the 
summer drifted into winter, bringing with it its 
sudden blight of unutterable loss. 




CHARLES FROST ALDRICH 
IN THE UNIFORM OF THE FIRST CORPS OF CADETS, MASSACHUSETTS VOLUNTEER MILITIA 



CROWDING MEMORIES 285 

"Yet, O stricken heart, remember, O remember, 
How of human days he lived the better part. 
April came to bloom and never dim December 
Breathed its killing chills upon his head or heart." 

Mr. Aldrich died on March 19. Fittingly, as the 
sun set, the end came. With a smile of ineffable 
sweetness he said to the one dearest to him, "I am 
going to sleep; put out the lights." And for her he 
loved, the light of life went out and darkness came. 

On the first day of spring, at the Arlington Street 
Church, were held impressive funeral services, "be- 
fitting a poet's passing." 

Mrs. Gardner asked "that his pall might be the 
violet mantle she brought, nothing black should 
shroud his airy spirit in its flight." 

" I wonder what day of the week, 
I wonder what month of the year; 
Will it be midnight or morning? 
And who will bend over my bier?" 

The friends he loved most "bent over his bier." 
And in the presence of many of his old comrades 
in the life of Letters he was buried in Mount Auburn 
Cemetery beside his boy, on whose grave, as if held 
by him, rested the blanket of flowers that waited to 
cover the displaced brown earth. On the recumbent 
stone of granite and slate, underneath the carven 
wreath, is inscribed a fragment of Mr. Aldrich 's own 
lines: 



286 CROWDING MEMORIES 



"... How trivial now 
To him must earthly" laurel be 
Who wears the amaranth on his brow! 
How vain the voices of mortality! 

So take him, Earth, and this his mortal part 
With that shrewd alchemy thou hast, transmute 
To flower and leaf in thine unending Springs!" 



FINIS 



"That which in him was fair 
Still shall be ours; 
Yet, yet my heart lies there 
Under the flowers." 



INDEX 



INDEX 



Actors' Club, 263-67. 

Agassiz, Louis, 135. 

Aldrich, Charles Frost, marriage 
of, 281; illness and death of, 
281-83. 

Aldrich, Thomas Bailey, as imag- 
ined and in the reality, 18, 19; 
at the Booths', 22 ; as visualized 
by Mr. Greenslet, 24; doing 
editorial work on the "lUus- 
/ trated News," 29; his chap- 

eronage of Booth, 31-33; en- 
gagement to the future Mrs. 
Aldrich, 43, 44; early life, 45, 
46; his association with N. P. 
Willis, 46-48; and Miss Gar- 
nault, 49-53; injured in riot, 
54; among his artist friends, 
55-57; introduced fiancee at 
Bryant's testimonial, 57-59; 
with Booth after the assassina- 
tion of Lincoln, 74, 75; in the 
year 1865, 84; offered editor- 
ship of "Every Saturday," 85 
married, 85; sonnet of Bayard 
Taylor on marriage of, 86 
intimacy with W. D. Howells 
87, 88, 90; his inspiration, 88 
and Dickens's readings, 99; and 
the "Nutter House," 1 10-18 
and "The Story of a Bad Boy,' 
111-18; birth of twins, 118 
early epistolary acquaintance 
with Mark Twain, 127, 128 
his wit, 145; on first days in 
London, 169-72; quoted on 
apartment at Paris, 193, 194; 
quoted on visit to the Pope, 



201-16; on his return home, 219; 
"The Legend of Ara Coeli," 
220-22 ; begins a new novel, 224; 
becomes editor of the " At- 
lantic," 245; from portrait of, 
by Miss Francis, 245; at the 
"Longfellow Memorial Fund" 
readings, 255-60; William H. 
Rideing's pen portrait of, 260- 
62; suggests name "The Play- 
ers" for the Actors' Club, 263; 
resigns editorshipof "Atlantic," 
270; doings of, in years im- 
mediately following resigna- 
tion from editorship of "At- 
lantic," 270; and "Mercedes," 
271-76; bout with Chauncey 
M. Depew, 276-78; his friend- 
ship with Henry L. Pierce, 
278, 279; marriage of his elder 
son, 281; and "Judith of 
Bethulia," 284; marriage of his 
second son, 284; death, 285; 
epitaph, 286. 
Aldrich, Mrs. T. B., sees Edwin 
Booth act, 1,2; premonition of, 
connected with Edwin Booth, 
2; meets Edwin Booth and 
his wife in a New York apart- 
ment house, 2-5; engagement 
to Mr. Aldrich, 43, 44; at 
testimonial to W. C. Bryant at 
the Century Club, 57-59; at- 
tends review in Washington, 
77, 78; marriage, 85; sonnet of 
Bayard Taylor on marriage, 86; 
and Mrs. Stowe, 122-27; meets 
Mr. Browning, 178; introduced 



/' 



290 



INDEX 



to Duke of Argyll, 239; con- 
'^versations of Duke of Argyll 
with, 239-41; Duke of Argyll 
presents his book to, 244; at 
supper given by Irving to Sarah 

• Bernhardt, 250-53. 

Aldriches, the, honeymoon months 
of, 86, 87; and Justin Winsor, 
91-95; and their house, 84 
Pinckney St., 96, 102; Dickens 
calls on, 102, 103; Dickens's in- 
terest in their Pinckney St. 
house, 104, 105; Longfellow 
calls on, 108; at Rose Cottage, 
119, 120; Mark Twain calls on, 
128-32, visit the Clemenses, 
143-48, 157-60; start for Eu- 
rope, 161-64; on board the 
"Abyssinia," 164-68; dine at 
the Smalleys', 173-84; see the 
sights of London, 185,190; dine 
at "The Star and Garter," 
Richmond, 186-90; visit Can- 
terbury, 190-93; go to Paris, 
193; at Paris, 193-98; go to 
Rome, 199-201 ; at Rome, 201 ; 
visit the Pope, 201-16; con- 
tinue their journey, 216; return 
to America, 216; sail on second 
voyage to Europe, 224; travel 
to Spain, 225; go to Africa, 
228, 229; their travels in Spain, 
229; their travels in France 
and Italy, 229; with Mr. and 
Mrs. Clemens in Paris, 229-31; 
in London, 231, 232; at Mr. 
and Mrs. Boughton's ball, 232; 
meet Oscar Wilde, 247-49; the 
doings of, in years immediately 
following resignation of Aldrich 
from editorship of "Atlantic," 
270. 
Argyll, Duke of, the Queen visits, 
237, 238; seeks introduction to 



Mrs. Aldrich, 239; his per- 
sonality, 239; form of address 
to, 240, 241; wishes invitation 
to Ponkapog, 241 ; and P. T. 
Barnum, 243; arrival in New 
York, 244; presents his book to 
Mrs. Aldrich, 244. 

Arthur, Julia, 271-76. 

Artists' receptions, 55-57. 

"Atlantic Monthly," 87, 88; 
Aldrich becomes editor of, 245. 

Aure, Comte and Comtesse d', 
197, 198. 

Authors' Readings, 255-62. 

Badeau, Captain, 35, 37. 

Bagpipes, the music of, 241. 

Bailey, Grandfather, death, 119. 

Bancroft, George, 58. 

Barnum, P. T., and the Duke of 
Argyll, 243. 

Barrett, Lawrence, 263. 

Barstow, Major Wilson, 29. 

Beecher, Henry Ward, 64. 

Beefsteak Room of Lyceum Thea- 
tre, 250, 252. 

Bernhardt, Sarah, Irving gives 
supper to, at the Beefsteak 
Room of the Lyceum Theatre, 

250-53- 

Bierstadt, Mr., 22, 23. 

Bingham, John A., 83. 

Bispham, William, 263. 

Black, William, 234. 

Blanc, Therese de Solins, 197, 
230. 

Boker, George H., 59. 

Booth, Mrs., mother of Edwin 
Booth, 39, 72, 75, 76. 

Booth, Edwin, seen by Mr. Al- 
drich 's future wife, i, 2; as he 
appeared in an apartment 
house dining-room, 3-5; his 
presence, 6, 7; his daily habits, 



INDEX 



291 



7, 8; valued highly his wife's 
approval, 8; and social events, 
9; and the question of Hamlet's 
insanity, 9; preparation of a 
new Hamlet costume for, 10, 1 1 ; 
accepts London engagement, 
11; daughter born to, 12; re- 
turns to America, 12; break- 
fast in rooms of, 16-19; an 
evening at his rooms, 19-23; 
suppers with, 25 ; and his minia- 
ture, 26, 27; his tendency to 
drink, 25, 28, 30; engagement 
in Boston, 27; takes house near 
Boston, 28; comes to New 
York without Mrs. Booth, 29, 
30; chaperonage of, by Aldrich 
and Thompson, 31-33; at the 
time of his wife's sickness and 
death, 34-38; quotations from 
letters on his wife's death, 
40-42; remark on paintings, 
57; after his wife's death, 60; 
becomes part proprietor of 
Winter Theatre, 60; and the 
part of "Hamlet," 61; engage- 
ment in Boston, 61 ; appearance 
at Boston Theatre on night 
of assassination of Lincoln, 
65, 66, 70; on the morning after 
the assassination, 71; during 
the following days, 73-75; at 
trial of conspirators, 82, 83; and 
The Players Club, 263-67; 
portrait painted by Sargent, 
265-67; lines on the portrait, 
267; end of his professional 
career, 267, 268; last years and 
death, 268; lines on, 269. 
Booth, Mrs. Edwin, her appear- 
ance, 4-6; and Booth's Hamlet 
costume, 10, 11; and Booth's 
miniature, 26, 27; sickness and 
death, 34-38; poem of T. W. 



Parsons on, 39; funeral, 39; epi- 
taph on, 40. 

Booth, John Wilkes, 39; at the 
Stoddards', 34; and the assassi- 
nation of Lincoln, 69-72; letter 
to his mother, 72 ; the idol of his 
mother, 73; death of, 74-76. 

Booth, Junius Brutus, 32, 33. 

Boston in the sixties, 90. 

Boston Museum, 255. 

Boston Theatre, the, 65, 66. 

Boughton, Mr. and Mrs. George 
H., 231, 232. 

Browning, Robert, 178, 179, 232. 

Bryant, William Cullen, testi- 
monial to, 57-59. 

Burgos, 226. 

Burlingame, Anson, 151. 

Calais, 193. 

Campbell, Lord Walter, 238, 239. 

Canterbury, 190-93. 

Carcassonne, 229. 

Carr, Comyns, 232. 

Cary, Miss, quotations from let- 
ters of Booth to, 60, 61. 

Century Club, the, 15, 57-59- 

Chester, 168. 

Clarke, Mrs. J. S., 33, 75. 

Clemens, S. L. (Mark Twain), 
early epistolary acquaintance 
with Aldrich, 127, 128; calls on 
the Aldriches, 128-32; works 
on the "Era," 139; a visit to, 
143-48, 157-60; his description 
of Aldrich's wit, 145, 146; 
anecdotes of, 146-48, 157-60; 
asks blessing, 148; his adora- 
tion for his wife, 148, 156, 157; 
and picture of Olivia Langdon, 
149; description of, 150; pro- 
fanity of, 150, 151; meets 
Olivia Langdon, 151; becomes 
engaged to Miss Langdon, 155; 



292 



INDEX 



welcomes Aldrich home from 
Europe, 219; in Paris with 
the Aldriches, 229-31; on the 
French language, 229; at din- 
ner given by Comtesse d'Aure 
and Madame Blanc, 230, 231; 
reads at "Longfellow Memorial 
Fund" readings, 256, 257. 

Clemens, Mrs. S. L., 147, 156, 
I57> 159- See Langdon, Olivia. 

Conspirators, trial of, 80-83. 

"Crags, The," 270. 

Curtis, G. W., 107; reads at 
"Longfellow Memorial Fund" 
readings, 256, 258. 

Dana, Richard H., Jr., 135. 

D'Aure, Comtesse, 230. 

Depew, Chauncey M., and Al- 
drich, bout between, 276-78. 

Dickens, Charles, quotations from 
letters regarding his coming to 
America, 96-98; arrival in 
Boston, 98; sale of tickets for 
readings of, 99; and his read- 
ings, 99-101 ; letter to Professor 
Felton on "Christmas Carol," 
loi ; calls on the Aldriches, 102, 
103; his interest in the Aldrich 
houseonPinckney St., 104, 105; 
and the "walking match," 105, 
106; and the dinner following 
the "walking match," 106, 
107. 

Dolby, Mr., 105. 

Dover, 193. 

Emerson, Ralph Waldo, 58, 135. 
"Every Saturday," 85. 
Europe, the Aldriches' first visit 
to, 161-218. 

Fawcett, Edgar, 223. 
Felton, Professor C. C, loi. 



Fields, James T., 87, 96, 104, 105, 

133- 
Follen, Mrs., 121. 
Ford's Theatre, Washington, 66- 

70; visit to, 80, 81, 
Francis, Miss Susan M., a pen 

portrait of Aldrich by, 245. 
French, speaking and studying, 

195-97- 
Fussy, Irving's dog, 253, 254. 

Gardner, Mrs., 285. 

Garnault, Miss, 49-53. See 
Smalley, P. G. 

Garrick, David, 94. 

Genoa, 200. 

"George," 144. 

Godwin, Parke, 23, 263. 

Goodman, Joe, 148, 156. 

Grant, U. S., 65, 80; in Madrid, 
227, 228. 

Grant, Mrs. U. S., her tact, 228. 

Greenslet, Ferris, quoted on 
meeting of Mr. Aldrich and 
Miss Woodman, i; quoted on 
Mr. Aldrich 's appearance and 
manner, 24; quoted on the year 
1865, 84, 85; quoted on the 
Pinckney St. house, 96; quoted 
on the "Nutter House," 115; 
quoted on the birth of twins, 
118; letter of Lowell quoted by, 
226; on Mr. Aldrich 's appoint- 
ment to editorship of the "At- 
lantic," 245; cited, 270, 276; 
quoted on death of Mr. Al- 
drich's son, 281-84. 

Hale, E. E., reads at "Longfellow 
Memorial Fund " readings, 256, 
258. 

Harte, Bret, visits Boston, 133; 
Howells's account of his visit, 
133-35; dines with the Satur- 



INDEX 



293 



day Club, 135; accepts offer to 
contribute to the "Atlantic," 
135; anecdotes of, 136, 137; his 
early life, 138, 139; his writing 
of "The Heathen Chinee," 
139; at reception of social 
aspirant, 139, 140; gives Phi 
Beta Kappa Poem, 142. 

Hartford, 143. 

Hawthorne, Nathaniel, 168, 190. 

Hawthorne, Mrs., 102. 

Herold, Young, 81. 

Higginson, Colonel T. W., reads at 
"Longfellow Memorial Fund" 
readings, 256, 262. 

Holmes, O. W., 59; reads at 
"Longfellow Memorial Fund " 
readings, 256, 258. 

Howe, Julia Ward, 39, 59; sings 
"The Battle Hymn," 140; poet 
and patriot, 141; in battle of 
wits, 141; reads at "Longfellow 
Memorial Fund " readings, 256, 
258. 

Howells, William Dean, assistant 
editor of "Atlantic Monthly," 
87; intimacy with Aldrich, 87, 
88; his manner of working, 88; 
difficulties in getting married, 
88-90; and the Aldrich house 
on Pinckney St., 102; his ac- 
count of Bret Harte's visit to 
Boston, 133-35; at Mark 
Twain's, 143, 145, 146; from 
sketch of Mark Twain, 158; 
reads at ' ' Longfellow Memorial 
Fund" readings, 256-62; on 
Aldrich's wit, 277. 

Howells, Mrs. W. D., 89, 90. 

Hughes, Thomas, 184. 

Hutton, Laurence, 263. 

Inns, English, 191-93. 

Irving, Henry, and mushrooms. 



181, 182; gives supper at the 
Lyceum Theatre, 249, 250; 
gives supper to Sarah Bern- 
hardt at the Beefsteak Room 
of the Lyceum Theatre, 250-53; 
and "Fussy," 253, 254. 

James, Henry, quoted on Brown- 
ing, 179; quoted on London, 
185; in London, 231. 

Keats, John, 216. 

Langdon, Charles, 149, 151, 155, 

Langdon, Olivia, her picture, 149; 
meets Mark Twain, 151 ; injury 
and care of, 152-54; engage- 
ment of, 155. See Clemens, 
Mrs. 

Lee, Robert E., surrender of, 62. 

"Legend of Ara Coeli, The," 220- 
22. 

Letters from the Aldrich children, 
162, 216-18. 

Libraries, 94, 95. 

Lincoln, President, assassination, 
64-70; his assassination part of 
a conspiracy, 80. 

Liverpool, 225. 

Lodge, Henry Cabot, 243. 

London, first days in, 169-72; 
Henry James quoted on, 185; 
sights of, 185, 190; another 
visit to, 231. 

Longfellow, Henry W., 107-09, 

135- 

"Longfellow Memorial Fund" 
readings, 255-62. 

Lowell, James Russell, 59, 135; 
letter of, quoted, 226; on his 
knowledge of Spanish, 227; 
on reception to General Grant 
in Madrid, 227, 228; reads at 



294 



INDEX 



"Longfellow Memorial Fund" 

readings, 256, 262. 
Ludlow, Fitz Hugh, 18. 
Ludlow, Mrs. Fitz Hugh, 18, 22, 

24. 
Lyceum Theatre, 249-53. 
Lynn Terrace, 222. 
Lyons, 199. 

Macmillan, Mr., 234, 235. 
Mark Twain. See Clemens, S. L. 
Marseilles, 199. 
McAleer, Patrick, 144. 
McAllister, Ward, 90. 
McEntee, Mrs. and Mrs. Jervis, 

57- 
Mead, Miss. See Howells, Mrs. 

W. D. 
"Mercedes," 271-76. 
Millais, Mrs., 231. 
Monaco, 199. 
Monte Carlo, 200. 

New Year's calls, 222, 223. 
Newton, Dr., 153, 154. 
Nice, 199. 

Norton, C. E., presides at Au- 
thors' Readings, 256, 257, 258. 
"Nutter House," the, 85, 110-19. 

Osgood, James R., 105, 143. 

Palmer, Mr., 271-75. 

Paris, 193-98. 

Parsons, Thomas W., poem on 
Mary Booth, 38, 39; at Mary 
Booth's funeral, 39; epitaph 
on Mary Booth, 39, 40. 

Payne, Lewis, 82. 

Peck, Professor, quoted on N. P. 
Willis, 47. 

Phillips, Wendell, 49-53. 

Pierce, Henry L., 278-80. 

Pisa, 200, 201. 



Players Club, The, 263-67. 
Pope, the, visit to, 201-16. 
Portsmouth, 85, 1 10-19. 

Rathbone, Major Henry Reed, 

68, 69. 
Reid, Mr. and Mrs. Whitelaw, 

276, 278. 
Review of army at Washington, 

77-80. 
Rhodes, James Ford, quoted on 

the surrender of Lee, 62, 63. 
Richmond, dinner at "The Star 

and Garter," 186-90. 
Rideing, William H., pen portrait 

of Aldrich, 260-62. 
Rome, 201. 

Rose Cottage, 119, 120. 
Ruskin, John, 231. 

Sala, George Augustus, 188, 189. 

Sand, George, 197. 

Sargent, John S., paints portrait 
of Booth, 265-67; lines on his 
portrait, 267. 

Scudder, Horace E., 270. 

Seward, William H., 80, 82. 

Shelley, P. B., 216. 

Smalley, George Washburn, 153, 
174. 

Smalley, Phoebe Garnault, 173, 
176. See Garnault, Miss. 

Smalleys', the, the Aldriches dine 
at, 173-84- 

Spain, 225. 

"Star and Garter, The," Rich- 
mond, 186-90. 

Stedman, Edmund Clarence, 17'^ 
on Oscar Wilde's visit to Bos- 
ton, 246. 

Stedman, Mrs. E. C, 17; her lack '' 
of tact, 223. 

Stedmans, the, receive on New„, 
Year's Day, 222, 223. 



INDEX 



295 



Sterling, Mrs., and her daughter 

Lizzie, 104, 105. 
Stoddard, Richard Henry, 12, 13, 

17, 59- 

Stoddard, Mrs. Richard Henry, 
appearance, 13; fascination of, 
14, 17, 18; her sal®n, 15; letter 
to Mrs. Booth at time of lat- 
ter's sickness, 35. 

Stoker, Bram, 251. 

"Story of a Bad Boy, The," quo- 
tations from, II1-17; finished, 
118. 

Stowe, Harriet Beecher, 164; 
calls on the Aldriches, 120-27. 

Sumter, Fort, 64. 

Surratt, Mrs., 82. 

Swift, Miss, boarding-house of, 
H, 15- 

Taylor, Bayard, 59; picture of, 17; 
sonnet of, on marriage of Al- 
drich, 86; says good-bye to the 
Aldriches on the "Abyssinia," 
162, 163; death, 224; poem on, 
236. 

Taylor, Mrs. Bayard, 17. 



Terry, Miss Ellen, 250; and Sarah 
Bernhardt, 251-53. 

Thompson, Launt, 18, 22, 25; 
his chaperonage of Edwin 
Booth, 31; his studio, 56; and 
Edwin Booth's mother, 75, 76. 

Ticknor & Fields, 99, 106. 

Warner, Charles Dudley, 143, 
144. 

Warren, William, 39. 

Whistler, James A. McNeill, 181, 
183, 184. 

Whittier, John Greenleaf, 59. 

Wilde, Oscar, visits Boston, 246; 
received by Harvard student 
masqueraders, 246; the Al- 
driches meet, 247-49; drops his 
masquerade, 250. 

Wilde, Mrs. Oscar, 250. 

Willis, Imogene, 46. 

Willis, Nathaniel P., 46-48. 

Winsor, Justin, 91-95. 

Winter Theatre, Booth becomes 
part proprietor of, 60. 

Woodman, Lilian. See Aldrich, 
Mrs. T. B. 



CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS 
U . S . A 






% ^' 


.* €, 


&^ 


as 






/%■ 


i> 














>0 o 






■^oo^ 




.^^ -% 






% ^^ 







^^A c^ 



.5 -71 



cf-. 



V> ,A' ^ =.- -</> .^' 



V (<*-'' 






,^' 



^^^ "^.mK^^. 



^^. v^^ 






C -r 



<K 



Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 
Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
Treatment Date: Sept. 2009 

PreservationTechnologies 

A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION 

1 1 1 Thomson Park Drive 
Cranberry Township, PA 16066 
(724)779-2111 



. "^-"'-VVS*' <. ol^ 



'^^.*.onO^ \^ 



S-' 



ci-. 



<!:^ ■% 









,s-'' 



■s^. 



.0 o. 






,>' 



aX 



,#\^ 



'oo^ 



^ .<i>'^ 






^^^ '% "- 



